


House Style

by soft_october



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy, based on Desk Set, because low stakes love is what we need in these trying times, rated b for banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23445613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october
Summary: “Since that's all settled, the real question is did he give you his number?” Anathema laughed. “He was looking at you the way you look at lunch.”“Forget lunch!” Michael declared. “He was looking at you the way you were looking at him!”Aziraphale is content in his job as an editor at Celestial Publishing, though he could go for a bit less of doing his boss' job for him. But everything goes a bit screwy when the CEO brings in a consultant with plans to build a program that will turn the entire editorial department on its head. If only he wasn't sohandsome
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 488
Kudos: 808
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leaveanote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/gifts).



> This is for the GO romcom event, and I've been looking forward to posting for WEEKS! This is full fat and sugar fluff, humor, banter, and falling in love, because if I can't go outside during this quarantine at least I can make myself laugh (and hopefully the rest of you too!)
> 
> written for leaveanote, because they're WONDERFUL

On September 15th, at ten-thirty in the morning, a tall man in a dark suit and glasses walked through an opulent revolving door of gold and glass and into the lavishly furnished lobby of Celestial Publishing. He moved through the lavish room in a manner that could be described as something between a saunter and a swagger, exchanged a few terse words with the woman at the security desk, received a badge with the letters V-I-P written in very large and very red letters across the front, and took the elevator to the very tip top of the skyscraper, where only Her office resided. 

(She was never referred to by name. It was always Her. Or “the boss.” Usually in a hushed or frantic tone, often accompanied by tears. As the whole company well knew, if you had to invoke Her name, you were in enough trouble already.) 

The man wore an easy smile, and the sunglasses he refused to take off even when he was inside made it hard to tell what he was really thinking. But if you were able to get close enough, and knew what to look for, you might see a twitch at the corner of his temple, a tense muscle in his jaw, a line in his shoulders that suggested all was not as well as that blithe smile suggested. 

But no one was able to get close enough, and no one knew what to look for. 

“Is She in?” he asked Her secretary, who jumped up from his desktop computer like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and only barely recovered enough to peer up at him superciliously through sharp eyes. 

Her secretary was a weasley looking man, with a weasely little conniving mind, and didn’t much appreciate the manner nor means of the interruption in his work. But before he could tell the tall man with the dark suit and glasses that She wasn’t in (she _was_ ) and that he had been expected the previous day (he _wasn’t_ ), Crowley strutted right through the door and vanished into the room beyond. 

“Mr. Crowley,” Her secretary heard Her say. “It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?” 

The door closed, and he could hear no more. He thought about turning on the intercom and listening in, but She’d know. She always knew. (He could press his ear against the door, he’d done that before, but such an indignation was only for particularly interesting meetings, and this situation hadn’t quite earned that merit.) Instead, he huffed and puffed a bit, picked up the phone, and called an office several floors down. It rang twice before a rich American voice picked up the phone. 

“Gabriel?”

“Speaking.”

“He’s here.” 

* * *

Aziraphale entered the offices of Celestial Publishing through the service entrance on the side of the building. He tapped his toe to the dreadful music in the elevator, helped Newt from payroll pick up the stack of files he dropped in the hallway, comforted Newt that he was doing a fine job, and was in no way one more mistake away from being sacked, and finally swung into the office just as Anathema handed him a fresh cup of tea. 

“Morning Mr. Fell!” Aziraphale cradled the tea with both hands and gave her a grateful smile. 

“Anathema, you know I’ve asked you to call me Aziraphale,” 

“Yeah, but Mr. Fell takes less time.” Aziraphale had a thought about American sensibilities that was as brief as it was unkind. “I’ve got the new books waiting on your desk, Newt’s already been by with your scone, and I’ve held all your calls until lunch.” Well. Perhaps American sensibilities were not completely barbaric. 

“Is that our fearless leader, only ten minutes late _again_?” Michael asked from behind her desk. “My _goodness_ , to what do we owe this _burst_ of industry?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes at her good naturedly. 

“Michael said that Gabriel’s on ‘is way down,” Mr Young supplied, without looking up from his computer. 

“How does Michael know?” Aziraphale asked 

“Phone tree,” Michael replied, referring to her unofficial team of office gossip.(The network of administrative assistants was legion, labyrinthian, and loved nothing more than a good juicy story.) “They’d make me turn in my badge if I missed something like that.” 

“Bet that promotion’s finally come in,” said Anathema. 

“And thank _heaven_ if it has,” Michael exclaimed. “I thought I’d turn old and gray before I earned that view in the corner office.”

“Jumping into my grave rather quickly, Michael,” Aziraphale admonished her, but there was a smile behind it. “Wait until my corpse cools, at the very least.”

“I had my ex’s cars sold before the ink was dry on the divorce,” Michael laughed. “Took myself on a nice holiday in Majorca and I was with _him_ for ten years. No, I'm afraid I’m already picking out curtains to replace those ridiculous tartan ones you so insist on." 

“You're _sure_ you're not American?” Anathema asked. 

“She can't be, way she hates coffee,” mumbled Mr. Young, and to accentuate his evaluation Michael made a face like they'd just passed by a dirty alleyway. 

“Disgusting thing, coffee.”

“Absolutely wretched,” Aziraphale agreed, and took a pointed sip of his tea. 

“Well, the tea is better for reading the future, certainly. Not sure about the taste,” Anathema concluded, and Aziraphale tilted his cup away from her ever so slightly. Best not to know what might be lurking around the corner of the next hour. 

Aziraphale was able to shut himself in his office for no less than three minutes before Gabriel swept in and greeted him with a six-figure smile so wide and strained Aziraphale wondered if the veneer might just crack to pieces.

“Aziraphale, surely you’ve heard by now,” he began, sitting down and putting his feet up on Aziraphale’s desk without so much as a by your leave. “But this has the potential to be a disaster unless we get out in front of it, and I expect you to keep an eye on him and report back everything you find.” 

It wasn’t unusual that Gabriel might come into Aziraphale’s office and start throwing orders around regarding things he had worked out in his mind and neglected to inform his subordinates of. Aziraphale was very good at lots of polite nodding and then being filled in on what was going on by Michael or Anathema, who had their fingers on the pulse of the company (and a direct line to Gabriel’s administrative assistant) but this was the first time Gabriel has essentially ordered him to spy on some mysterious third party, and silent agreement might not be the best course of action until he knew what, precisely, he was agreeing too. 

“I’m sorry Gabriel, I’ve just walked in and I don’t -” he fought through the twitch in Gabriel’s smile - “I don’t _quite_ know what you’re talking about.” 

“Really Aziraphale, I’ve told you to be more of a go-getter about the goings-on in the company!” (He had, at every single one of Aziraphale’s yearly reviews) “How have you not heard about the consultant?”

“The consultant?” Aziraphale repeated, rather timidly. 

“The _consultant!_ ” In a moment Gabriel was on his feet, pacing around the office like a particularly irate lion. “She” - he almost shouted, and he dropped his voice to a whisper in an instantly. “ _She’s_ hired some _outside contractor_ to improve the efficiency of the editing department. _Our_ department! Don’t you know what this could mean?” 

“Efficiency?”

“Efficiency!” Gabriel spat, like it was wine from a $100 bottle when he expected no less than $450. “Don’t you get it? There are _jobs_ on the line, Aziraphale, productivity quotas and - well, you can see why there might be cause for distress, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale parroted, but wasn’t. He found he couldn’t muster even the barest cause for concern. The consultant would just watch how they worked, suggest a few improvements or two, and be gone in a week. It would be irritating to have another body around the office, surely, but Gabriel was acting as if it was the end of the _world_ or something! 

“Just - watch him, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “Watch him _very closely_. Tell me what he’s up too. I don’t want to be caught unawares by any of this, alright?” 

‘“Of course.”

“Great!” Gabriel was instantly the charming executive again, all traces of misplaced paranoia buried somewhere behind his 600 watt smile. “Who knows, maybe this whole thing blows over, maybe we can finally work on that promotion, eh?” 

“That - that would be quite nice.” 

“Excellent.” Gabriel was looking at his phone, flicking through his messages. “If that’s all sorted out I’ve got about a million other things to worry about, I’ll leave you to it.” He strode out of the office, without a goodbye for any of the rest of the staff or even a nod in their general direction. (Probably just as well, because Anathema stuck her tongue out at his retreating back and blew a soft raspberry.) 

“No promotion, eh boss?” Mr. Young asked Aziraphale when he meekly trailed out of the office in Gabriel’s wake. 

“Never a promotion,” said Michael before Aziraphale could reply. “But I promise you he’ll be down with a stack of documents to be prepared tomorrow, the bastard.”

“I’m sure he’s just-”

“A git?” finished Anathema. “Did I use that right?” she turned to Aziraphale. Newt said I didn’t use it right the last time.”

“Your - ah - accent could use some work? But what’s all this about a consultant?”

“Oh, the whole building is abuzz about some tall handsome sunglasses wearing consultant that went up to Her office today.” Michael said. “Heard he didn’t even wait to be announced.”

“Tall and handsome, huh?” Anathema prodded. “Clearing out a place on your dance card?” 

“If I was _old_ enough to _know what that was_ , which I certainly am _not_ , no, not my type,” Michael replied. 

“What _is_ your type?”

“Trying to muster up the courage for yourself, are we?”

“Only in your dreams!” 

“Not mine, but I know who _does_ like a tall drink of water every once in a while,” Michael nudged her chin in Aziraphale’s direction, who had the decency to look scandalized.

“I’ll have you know that was _one time_ -”

“Ah yes, one time over and over and over -”

“Now see _here-”_

“Am I interrupting the happy hour?” Four heads whipped in the direction of the door, where indeed, there stood a tall, handsome man in a black suit, some very pricey looking sunglasses, a dark shock of hair, and a smirk on his face that could rival the devil himself. “I was told this is where I could find the editing department, but I’ve clearly been mistaken.” 

Oh but he _was_ rather handsome, wasn’t he? Aziraphale very carefully did not turn around to see Michaels knowing smile as he opened his mouth, closed it, and prayed words would come when he opened it a second time. 

“No - no,” he managed. “You’ve got the right place.”

“Well, good. I was afraid I’d have my work cut out for me indeed, editorial department up and ran off and left you lot behind . 

“And just what _is_ the nature of that work, Mr…” Michael drawled. 

“Crowley,” Mr. Crowley supplied. “Anthony J. Crowley, but Mr. Crowley was my father and we haven’t spoken in years, so Crowley will do just fine.” Aziraphale could see that he was looking at him even through the sunglasses, and he stuck out his hand between them. 

“Aziraphale Fell,” he said as they shook hands. Crowley made a face. 

“Quite the mouthful,” he remarked. 

“My father liked that it was religious, my mother liked the way it rhymed and my primary school experience was exceedingly awful. Shall we speak in my office?”

“I’d prefer it, actually,” Crowley replied. “Wouldn’t want to cause a panic now, would we?” Aziraphale chuckled nervously, because nothing could cause an office panic faster than someone saying they didn’t _want_ to cause a panic, and led the way into his office. 

“What do you call those then,” Crowley asked as soon as the door had closed behind them, pointing at the line of succulents on the windowsill.

“My plants?” Anathema had brought them for his birthday last spring, trying to “maximize the energy of the space.” 

“I know they’re plants, but look at those spots, the twisted growth, you been watering them?”

“Of course I have.”

“Well _quit it_ , this poor bugger’s nearly drowned.” 

“Botanist, developer, is there a third talent I should know about before I stumble my way into offending another of your delicate sensibilities?”

“Oh I’m _anything_ but delicate,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale wondered if the heating had kicked on, the way it suddenly felt so warm. “But no, I think we’ve covered all of it.” He plopped down in the chair in an arrangement of limbs one could, perhaps, if one squinted a bit, call sitting. “So who told you I was brought on as a consultant for the department? I knew office gossip travels fast but this is ridiculous, I've only been in the building fifteen minutes!” Though it had been Gabriel who told him, Aziraphale thought instead of Michael and her backchannels, and smiled a bit. 

“Oh, I hear things here and there. You've got the whole building in quite a state, the way you marched into her office.” Crowley grinned and carelessly tossed a hand over his shoulder. 

“Should have known… Well, let's get to it then. My job, which no one but myself, the director of this company and now you are aware of, is to build you people a program to run all the fresh manuscripts through. Take care of basic things, grammar and punctuation and all that, leaving you people free to handle the phrasing and cuts and whatever other fancy magic you work on these doorstops.” Here Crowley indicated the rather large volumes sitting on Aziraphale's desk. Aziraphale bravely ignored the slight against his personal collection and pressed on. 

“Yes, well, don't we already have that? The Word and the Google docs? They hardly ever work correctly.” _Especially_ the google docs. He remembered Anathema always complaining that nothing ever formatted right when you transferred things on google docs to a different platform, like a website or something. And what could some little program know about phrasing, about cutting down a bulky manuscript down to the essentials? His ancient copy of Office XP on the computer he plainly _refused_ to allow IT to touch (I have it just how I like it, it works just fine for what I need it for, if you touch one key on that keyboard you’ll find yourself _quite_ sorry for it) didn’t even know the proper use of participles! No, Aziraphale trusted a pen and a fully printed volume, and his proficiency was the reason the corner office had tartan curtains and his name in gold on the door. 

“Oh, I think you'll find my programs to be a mite more sophisticated than _google docs_.” It was evident from the way he pronounced the last bit that Crowley shared Anathema's opinion. “They're written for each company personally, to fill in the cracks between the employees. By the time it's up and running you'll find you can process far more books in less time, I promise you that.” Aziraphale had serious doubts about any of this, and, as far as his experience was concerned, new software meant a great deal of training and then a sudden increase in lay-offs for “the good of the company,” and he didn't see why this Crowley (handsome as he was) shouldn't be made to understand that. 

“So many books there won't be any need of us, I expect,” Aziraphale muttered. 

“No, now - no, that's not -” Crowley stuttered. “It's only supposed to help, not put any of you out of a job.” He looked away, out the window at something that must have been very interesting indeed, the way he was so focused on it. “I wouldn’t do what I do without assurances from management. Your jobs are all safe.” 

“Why are you telling me this, and not my boss?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley turned back to him and shrugged. 

“‘S the way She wants it. Don’t ask me.” 

“I suppose I should keep mum about this to my staff?”

“Unless you trust in their sense of secrecy not to cause a company wide panic?” Aziraphale very much did not. 

“I very much _do not_.”

“Can't _imagine_ why. And I’m sure you expected this, but I've got to hang about for a bit, get a feel for the department and how it works. Shouldn’t be much more than a week or so.” Aziraphale should _hope not_. The last thing he needed was some stranger, handsomely hanging around the department - He arrested that train of thought right away. 

“Is that _standard_ for a program like this?” he asked instead. 

“For one of my caliber it is,” Crowley wore a prideful smile. “You'll see, when it's all said and done.” 

Before Aziraphale could muster up a response, the phone buzzed at his desk. 

“Yes, hello?”

“Is Crowley with you?” It was Melvin, _Her_ secretary, who couldn't be bothered with so much as a polite greeting. (Michael called him ‘Metatron,’ which, according to her, was the angel who spoke with the voice of God. Michael was a reformed Catholic, and enjoyed her little jokes very much.) 

“Yes, I'm afraid he is.” 

“Well send him back up, She wants to ask him something before he leaves.” The line went dead without Aziraphale even forming an answer, and he clicked it back in the cradle a bit more harshly than he should. 

“It appears you're wanted upstairs.”

“Aw, and just when things were getting interesting,” Crowley pouted. Yes, Aziraphale thought, _interesting_ was certainly one way to put it. “Well, nothing to be done for it.” He stood up, and brushed invisible particles of dust off his finely tailored coat. “I suppose we'll be seeing a lot more of each other, at any rate.”

“I suppose we will,” Aziraphale replied, faintly. Crowley flashed him a startling grin, turned and swept out of the room. 

“Lovely to meet you all,” Aziraphale heard him say to the rest of the department. He received a collective mutter of replies for his trouble. 

The moment he was out of earshot, Anathema marched in and snatched the topmost book of the pile on his desk. 

“Anathema why on earth -”

“What happened with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome,” she asked, carefully keeping the book out of Aziraphale's reach. 

“Now really, there's no need for -” his soothing voice was immediately belied by a snatch at the book. 

“Michael!” Anathema called, and the woman appeared in the door just in time to catch the book Anathema had thrown out of Aziraphale's reach entirely.

“I'll tell you all everything, just please -"

“Mmm, no, we're afraid this is a hostage situation,” said Michael, with an angelic twinkle in her eye.

“You'll get it back after you tell us everything.”

“What's a hostage situation?” Even Mr. Young had ceased his plodding pace and wandered over to see what the matter was. 

“This is,” said Michael, brandishing the book at him, but not handing it over. Similar scenarios over the years had taught her that Mr. Young caved in _far_ too quickly when presented with the wobble of a lip and pleading in the eyes, something she knew his son Adam took full advantage of at every opportunity. 

“I promise you all there's not much to know. Mr. Crowley - ”

“He said just call him Crowley, didn't he?”

“Yes, well, _Crowley_ is here as a consultant to develop some kind of software or other to help the department. That’s everything I know.” It was as close to the truth as he was willing to say, without the rest of the facts. Crowley had been right about that - he wasn't interested in an internal meltdown over rumors about layoffs, however much he might enjoy a bit of harmless gossip here and there.

“You're sure that's all it is?” Michael said, sharp eyes scrutinizing his face for the merest hint of deception. 

“I'm positive.” Michael considered for a moment, then handed the book back to him. 

“Since that's all settled, the _real_ question is did he give you his number?” Anathema laughed. “He was looking at you the way you look at lunch.”

“Forget lunch!” Michael declared. “He was looking at _you_ the way you were looking at _him_!”

“Ex _cuse me?_ ”

“Aw, come now,” Mr. Young said from his desk. The other three paused, waiting for whatever was to follow. When it was clear that this single statement was the sum of Mr. Young's contribution, Anathema shook her head and smiled. 

“Just wait,” she told Aziraphale. “You'll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continue to be good to each other during this wild time, and come chat with me on tumblr at [@soft-october-night](https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/) Should be posting about one chapter a week!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a bunch more chapters planned for this, but this is currently my favorite. Enjoy!

Several floors up, at the tippy top of the building, a snivelling secretary had his ear pressed against one of the magnificent doors to Her office. The situation had rapidly evolved since the morning, and there were now several interested parties within the company who would prize any information about the mysterious Mr. Crowley. The rewards such intelligence could bring him were well worth his present state, kneeling on the floor with his head turned _just so_ to catch the most of the conversation within. 

“How did you like the department?” Her voice was not what one would expect from someone in her position. It was soft, - wry, even, and yet still could send shivers down spines and cause the heartiest employee to tremble in their five thousand dollar suits. 

“The usual cast of characters,” Crowley replied. “Maybe more camaraderie than most. You've made an interesting choice of floor manager, there.”

“Oh, Aziraphale? Whatever could you mean? Is there some sort of problem?”

“Problem? With him? No! Not at all… He's not - not… bad. Odd. Not what I'd expect, not from you, at any rate.” 

“That almost sounds like a compliment.”

“Not _bloody likely._ ” There was an extended pause. She hummed a bit, like she was thinking. She _wasn’t_. She _always_ knew what she would say, but it made whoever was on the other side of the desk sweat, at least a bit, as they worried what, exactly, she was thinking about. 

“You'll be nice to them, won't you?”

“What makes you think I'll _personally_ be the one down there? Could send out one of my people, if I wanted to, couldn't I?”

“Oh, of _course_ you could.”

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“You _know_ what. That knowing smile - thing.”

“Now look at who's paranoid. Jumping at shadows and seeing smirks that aren't there. You _will_ be down there yourself, won't you?”

“...Yeah.”

“Excellent! Oh, and if Gabriel gives you any trouble, just ignore him.”

“Is that something I should be expecting?”

“He _loves_ this company very much.”

“Too much?”

“I didn't say it.”

“You never do, do you?”

“What?”

“Just keep the rest of us jumping at shadows while you whirl your little plans. Don't think I don't remember.”

“Such slander my little Crowley! I promise you I'm not scheming a bit.”

“Oh, like I'm supposed to believe _that._ ”

“You believe whatever you like!”

“I believe those checks had better clear.”

“As you say. I'm sure the editing department will be delighted to see you bright and early tomorrow!”

Melvin barely had time to spring away from the door before it burst open, and the tall man in dark glasses strode out without another word. 

* * *

In the last hour of what was supposed to be the workday, Aziraphale had given up all pretense of looking at the manuscript he was supposed to be working on in favor of staring at the hands of the clock that hung above his door as they slowly - so slowly - ticked their way towards five. He was dearly hoping that the day had used up all its excitement within the first hour, and would have nothing left to hound him with before the weekend began, forgetting the age old wisdom, which states whenever anyone begins to hope that the lastest nonsense at work has died its natural death, they are always fated to be _extremely_ disappointed. 

This disappointment came in the form of Gabriel (as it usually did), who came back down to the floor just as the clock turned fifteen minutes before five with a folder so stuffed with papers it resembled a manila family bible, and the mere glimpse of it caused a small headache to start building behind Aziraphale's eyes. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel said brightly, as if he'd suddenly run into him at the water cooler, and not deliberately stepped into his office without knocking (again). “So _glad_ I caught you before you'd gone home for the day! Any big weekend plans?” 

Aziraphale did not have any big weekend plans (he _never_ had any big weekend plans, unless you counted the times when book he was reading was of a particularly large length and breadth) but he knew to say as much to Gabriel would amount that gigantic folder being dumped on his desk without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Well, as a matter of fact I -”

“Good! Good, that's great!” Gabriel said this to his very fancy and very expensive Rolex, and not Aziraphale at all. “Listen, something _huge_ just came up for me this weekend, and there's just _no way_ I'll be able to finish this quarterly report by the Monday meeting. I know you'll do a fantastic job, you always do!” The folder thunked down onto the desk, sending dust that had been proudly claiming the space for weeks floundering into the air. 

“Gabriel I -”

“I really appreciate this Aziraphale, and the company _really_ appreciates it too. I'll be sure to bring your name up at the meeting - maybe this presentation is what pushes you right over the edge into that sweet promotion territory, eh?” 

“Well, that would be lovely but -” 

“Have a good one!” Gabriel was already gone before Aziraphale could drum up another stuttered protest. 

“What did he make you do this time?” Michael shouted from the floor the moment he was out of earshot. “Budget? Hiring?” 

“I'll bet it's the quarterly report,” Anathema chimed in. 

“He _did_ say he has a lot going on this weekend - ” Aziraphale meekly protested. 

“A lot of _golf_ to play, more like,” Anathema muttered. 

“You're not going to do it, are you?” Michael looked at him as she often did, like a primary school teacher who wasn’t _cross_ with him, but _was_ rather frustrated with his inability to _apply_ himself. 

“I mean, it needs to get done - for our department and all... and like Gabriel said, maybe this is the final step towards a promotion and -” 

“Ah _yes_ the long fabled promotion!” Michael threw up her hands and started to mutter under her breath, as she usually did when her dreams of the corner office were again dashed. 

“There's a bridge for sale in Brooklyn too,” Mr. Young added, chuckling to himself as he pulled his coat on. 

“Just… don't work too late, alright?” Anathema asked. “If I come in on Monday and you're wearing these same clothes I'll have to spend most of next week crafting a curse on Gabriel, and then you'll have to do my work too.” Aziraphale smiled weakly at her, and bade the rest of the office good night. 

It wasn't _so_ long of a presentation. An hour or four of work, at the most. 

This was expecting, of course, that Aziraphale would not be distracted by tea, books, scrolling through rare book auctions on “the google,” forgetting his tea and having to make a new cup, staring out the window and having a very involved fantasy in which he interrupted Gabriel at a very fancy restaurant, slammed down the entire folder on top of his plate, and neatly placed an envelope with his resignation letter on top of it. 

“Do your own reports now,” he would say. No, no that would never do. If this was the last thing he ever said to Gabriel he wanted it to be something memorable, something that would stick with Gabriel the same way all the late nights and pithy comments about his fashion choices, his eating habits, and his work ethic had stuck with Aziraphale. 

“Best served cold,” he tried instead, and slammed the stack down a bit harder. No, not that either. Well, he would workshop it. Whatever he said, everyone in the restaurant (who were all his co-workers for some reason) would cheer and then She Herself would be there and clap him on the shoulder and tell him she loved that sort of get up and go attitude and he was wasting away where he was and wouldn't he like a promotion somewhere where he could catalogue all the books and never be seen or bothered by another living soul if he wished it? Why of course he would! 

This was not an uncommon fantasy (indeed, there isn't an employee of a vast and indifferent corporation with an incompetant supervisor that hasn't dreamed the same on a particularly frustrating afternoon), but there was a very small deviation this particular evening. You see, in all the times Aziraphale had conjured up this particular image, there had never before been a man in a black suit with dark hair and sunglasses sitting in the restaurant, just over Her shoulder. A man who wore a crooked smile, and raised his glass in salute the moment Aziraphale looked up to thank Her for Her vast generosity. He held eyes with the apparition for a moment, then blushed ferociously and shook his head so hard he fell straight out of his daydream and into the reality that it was already eight at night, and there was _so much work_ to be done. 

Well. He best get to it then. Leave those dreaming off company time. 

And _forget_ about the handsome consultant in the dark glasses. Yup. Just forget. Out of sight, out of mind, right? A little promise to himself to exclude Crowley from any and all future fantasies of _any kind_. 

* * *

Crowley sauntered into the office at eleven am on Monday morning with the intention of spending the rest of the day nosing around in their files, asking Michael and Anathema the occasional question, flipping through their extensive collection of published books, and making little humming noises to himself Aziraphale found as _incredibly_ annoying (as they were secretly endearing). 

Then at one o'clock, Michael came back from lunch with a pinched look on her face, and called Aziraphale over. 

“Look at this nonsense,” she muttered, showing him her phone. Gabriel's handsome face was there, smiling with his teeth like a military cemetary, dressed in a spotless white polo, golf clubs slung carelessly over his shoulder. 

“Got this through the grapevine,” she provided, by way of explanation. But Aziraphale had already seen the photo when Anathema sent it to him at ten the night before, accompanied by a string of expletives so colorful it made Aziraphale raise both his eyebrows and wonder what on earth they were teaching in American schools these days. 

“Well, it looks like he had an enjoyable-”

“Weekend? A weekend that he spent _golfing_ instead of - I mean how _long_ did it take you to finish _his_ quarterly report?” 

He stayed until ten on Friday, brought his work home with him to his small flat in SoHo, worked on it throughout Saturday, got distracted by an article called “50 Hilarious Comebacks That Will Shut Everyone Up (and Make You Look Like a Genius),” and finally finished the thing at noon on Sunday, and promptly fell asleep at his kitchen table with his hand in the butter. He made some quick alterations on Sunday evening after Anathema sent him the very photo Michael had on her phone, and passed out for a solid twelve hours before arriving to work ten minutes late and catching Gabriel in a sour mood as he handed over the project. 

“Oh, not too long,” he muttered. It was clear from her sharp glare that Michael didn't believe him. 

“You know he's up there now, showing off at the meeting, showing off _your report_ and passing it off as his own.”

“Let's not be too cruel, I'm sure -” Mr. Young began. 

“No, let's be cruel!” Anathema thumped down beside them. “What are we being cruel about?” 

“Oh, the usual,” Michael waved off.

“Gabriel being a world-class prat?” 

“Well…” Aziraphale began. “He might not be so happy with my report.” 

“What did you do?” Crowley wheeled over in a spare office chair, arm slung over the back. Aziraphale hadn't even seen him sit down. One moment he was there, and the next - 

“I’m not sure if I should -” Aziraphale began, but Crowley scoffed and allowed his glasses to fall a bit down his nose, so Aziraphale could really _see_ the roll of his eyes. 

“Oh please, I'm not going to _tell_ anyone, especially not _Gabriel_.” 

_Well, why not?_ There was a glimmer in Crowley’s eye Aziraphale would very much like to see develop into a sparkle.

So Aziraphale smiled, and told them. 

* * *

On the twenty third floor of the building, Gabriel stood at the head of a table in a darkened room before the heads of each department, lit by the glow of the ceiling projector. He was disappointed that She wasn't there to witness his (Aziraphale's) brilliant presentation, but word would get back to her, surely. He had them hanging on his every word as he efficiently and precisely discussed growth, budgeting options and the benefits of expanding his department. 

“And in conclusion,” he began, and clicked the remote to the next slide, which should show the final chart, with lots of little lines that had arrows going up and up and up beside numbers so large it should make even the head of accounting crack a smile. 

But there was no chart with lots of little arrows going up with very big numbers next to them. 

There wasn’t even a _chart_. 

What _was_ there was an excerpt from a book. Gabriel had not identified the book, and indeed was going on and on about the graph that was not there. But his audience quickly abandoned him. 

The excerpt was… Well, it certainly _was_ wasn’t it? 

It was entitled, “The Michelangelo Code.”

_“I never knew the publishing industry was such a daring and exciting field,” Sonya said, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. Her body had curves in all the right places, and her breath smelled like flowers and sunshine._

“As you can see,” Gabriel continued, but not a single soul at the table was paying attention, their eyes flicking through each line of the story projected up on the screen, like a train wreck from which none could look away. 

_“Yes, Sonya,” Gary replied, and she was enchanted by his strong jaw and stupefied by his masculine musk. “You might be very surprised by what a man can learn as the head of his own publishing company.”_

The nice older lady from accounting snorted, and quickly tried to cover it with a prolonged cough.

_“But you’re so strong and capable and smart!” Sonya cried. “How is it possible that someone like you is still single?”_

Uriel from HR could no longer contain herself, and burst out with a giggle that couldn’t be covered by even the heaviest of pretend sneezes. Gabriel frowned at her, and finally, _finally_ , turned around. 

When he saw what was there, a nerve in his temple began to twitch.

“I-I-I’m so sorry!” When he faced them once more, Gabriel’s handsome face had become a rather patchy sort of red, and his white teeth were suddenly drawn back in something more resembling a grimace than his patented red carpet smile. He clicked to the next slide - 

_“Where did you learn all these wonderful things, Gary?”_ it began. 

“I’m sure there just be some mistake!” He clicked again.

_Gary knew that he was the only man in the world smart enough to solve the mystery…_

“Must have been - some sort of error when I put the presentation together -” 

_But which woman should he choose? Sonya was exquisite and beautiful, yes, but Bethany laughed like Christmas bells and worked as a yoga instructor!_

He ripped the cord out of the computer to the tune of the uproarious laughter of his colleagues. 

* * *

“You _didn’t!_ ” Anathema marveled. “You’ll be _fired_ ! I don’t want a new boss I _just_ got used to you!” 

“Oh, I don’t think-” Mr. Young began. 

“It was in the folder,” Aziraphale said with a shrug and a twinkle in his eye. “I _simply_ thought it was a new writer that Gabriel wanted to _introduce_ to the company, and should it turn out that it was merely his _own_ very derivative and very _bad_ manuscript that _somehow_ made it into the folder by _mistake_ , well that’s certainly not _my_ fault. 

Aziraphale had avoided looking at Crowley for the duration of the story, nervous and excited and afraid of what he would find there. But when he turned to the consultant in the dark glasses, all he saw was a sort of open mouthed gape that quickly morphed into a smile that contained something more than just mirth. Aziraphale wanted to hope that it was admiration, _“He was looking at you the way you were looking at him!”_ isn’t that what Michael had said that first day? But just as Crowley looked as if he were about to say something, the moment was shattered by the shrill ring of Michael’s telephone. The office froze as she picked up the call. 

“Hello?” her voice was even, even as her toe began tapping out an uneven tattoo on the floor. 

“It’s Sandy,” Michael hissed to the rest of them, covering the receiver. “He says Gabriel came back from the meeting, locked his office door and is throwing the _ugliest_ fit he’s ever seen.”

“Is he coming down?” Anathema asked. 

“Hang on -” Michael put her finger up for silence. “Is he planning on coming down here?” 

Aziraphale waited for the verdict, dread taking root in his chest. Maybe he _shouldn’t_ have gone so far… maybe he wouldn’t be able to -”

“No, no, I’m afraid he’s not in right now,” Michael continued. “Yes he stepped out for a spot of lunch, I’m afraid. No, he won’t be back until Gabriel has _calmed down_ .” There was a tone of authority in Michael’s voice that Aziraphale was _quite_ glad he was not on the receiving end of. He could imagine Sandalphon, _Sandy_ , cringing in his high comfort office chair. “Mmm. Yes. You had best figure out a way to _make_ that happen, shouldn’t you? Excellent. Talk to you later.” Michael placed the phone back in its cradle and the entire room let out a collective breath, with the exception of Mr. Young, who had been diligently working on the manuscript he’d been assigned that morning without a single care in the world. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “I owe you for that one.”

“You sure do!” Michael said, in a manner that made it clear to everyone that there was a ledger somewhere, in which Michael was keeping track of these sorts of things. Mr. Young chuckled and made a remark to himself about poorly used semi-colons. 

“Boy I thought you were _done for_ ,” said Anathema. 

“Yes, thank you for that, Anathema,” Aziraphale muttered. “Maybe we should all _get back to work_?” 

“Is _that_ what the rest of you are supposed to be doing around here?” Crowley grinned. “I thought I was the only one.” 

“No, you’re the one who _gets in the way_ of working,” Michael quipped.

“Ah, yes, I’m the one forcing you to make all those mysterious phone calls down to the mailroom instead of work.”

“Wait, _what_ mysterious phone calls down to the mailroom?” Anathema asked, very quickly, before Michael could say something to silence them both. 

“Oh, I thought everyone knew _everything_ around here?” Crowley marveled. 

“No, _Michael_ knows everything around here, we’re just hangers-on, I’m afraid” Aziraphale explained. 

“But who do you know down in the _mailroom_?” Anathema asked again. 

“ _My_ phone calls are _my_ business.” Michael was making a valiant effort at that same cool, detached tone she had employed with Sandalphon, but it was much harder to invoke that same level of fear in the rest of them with her eyes darting back and forth, as if looking for an escape route. 

“I rather thought your phone calls were _everyone’s_ business, in manner of speaking,” Aziraphale added. 

“I am no longer going to justify this conversation,” Michael turned back to her work, but it would be difficult to miss the deep red tint to her ears. Mr. Young, still mostly oblivious to the office around him, made a disappointed grunt at his manuscript. 

The show was indeed over. 

There were a few more muttered grumblings, but then Anathema went to make tea, Crowley went back to poking around in their files and whatever else it was that Crowley did, and Aziraphale went back to his cozy little office. He made to close the door, but, after a moment’s hesitation, left it open. 

You see, there was lots of activity outside. He should try and keep an eye on the staff, after all.

And sometimes, Crowley would pass by the door on the way to root through the next cabinet, and he never failed to turn towards Aziraphale and fix him with a soft, thoughtful smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're stepping back from office shenanigans for a bit this chapter, but I don't think you guys will be disappointed!

The next day was Tuesday, and each Tuesday Newt would bring fancy coffee to Anathema from some shop around the corner as an excuse to talk to her for as long as his social anxiety could stand. (His record, according to Michael, was seven minutes and six seconds, although she had been doing most of the talking.) Newt was just getting to the part of the morning where he listened patiently while Anathema furiously flicked through her phone for the article on global warming she was quite adamant had it all wrong when Crowley gently knocked on the open door to Aziraphale’s office. 

“Crowley! How can I help you?” Aziraphale greeted him, too quickly. Crowley didn't seem to notice, and asked if he could commandeer one of the empty desks out on the floor to use as a workstation. Those desks had been sitting empty for _ages_ now, ever since Adam and Eve had taken off for greener pastures and gotten out of the business completely, and they were currently being used as sort of a catch all to put the odd document that needed a place to be promptly lost, forgotten about, or have tea spilled on them by an absentminded floor manager with his nose stuck in a book. 

“I don't see why not,” Aziraphale replied. “If anything looks important -”

“ You mean if I see anything that looks important in a tea stained pile of documents that are all at least two years old?”

“Yes, be a dear and put it on the other pile of tea stained documents, would you?”

“Ngk - yeah,” Crowley was scratching the back of his head in a manner that was really too endearing to be tolerated. “Yeah sure.” He bumbled out of the office like a man in a daze, and Aziraphale had to wonder just what that was all about.

He put it in the back of his mind as he tackled his workload for the day, and when he emerged from his office at three that afternoon, Eve’s old desk had been transformed into a pristine workstation (had the top of the desk really been _black_ this whole time?) with hardly anything on its polished surface at all, save for one very fancy looking laptop in the center. 

On Wednesday, as Mr. Young was grumbling good naturedly about someone stealing the biscuits he bought from the bakery down the road from d for out of the office fridge, Crowley wandered over to the copy machine, where Aziraphale was trying and failing to toe a waste bin out of sight. (It was only by the massive underdevelopment of Mr. Young’s observational skills that he was missed at all.)

“Mr. Young’s predicament wouldn’t have anything to do with that package you were eating out of earlier, would it?” Crowley asked the way everyone asks a question when they already know the answer, with a raised eyebrow and a faint smirk. 

“I would _never,_ ” Aziraphale huffed. "I'm sure no one _stole_ anything, someone was just _confused_ as to the nature of the-"

“Oh?” Crowley asked, and drew the very paper out of the waste bin at Aziraphale’s feet, stamped with the name of the very bakery from which the purloined biscuits had been purchased. “My eyes must be failing me, because it looks exactly like-”

“Give me that,” Aziraphale snactched the paper out of Crowley’s hand. “That’s- that’s _evidence,_ is what it is.”

“Ah, _evidence_. Going to mount a full scale investigation, are we?” 

“I might, at that.”

“Sounds good. I’ll round up the usual suspects, then?”

“You - you do that.” Crowley strolled off, back to his desk, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, his shoulders were gently shaking with silent laugher.

Thursday, after Gabriel finally came down to the office, threw everyone into a bit of a furor with five new manuscripts he wanted completed by the end of the week (and with no mention of what happened on Monday Aziraphale considered a mere five manuscripts a blessing, indeed). Aziraphale wouldn’t hear of anyone helping him with the mess, it being his own fault and all, and he was well prepared for a late night indeed. Around seven, when he thought everyone had gone, there was a strange clicking sound out on the floor, and, upon investigation, the source of them proved to be Crowley, who was ticking away at his keyboard. He had an odd method of typing - he was quick, quicker than Aziraphale, anyway, but he rarely used more than the first two fingers on each hand, his ring and pinky fingers suspended in the air as his hands shifted around the keyboard. 

“See something you like?” Crowley was looking at him - without his glasses. Aziraphale couldn't remember seeing his face without them before. He wanted more time, time to wonder at the honey gold of Crowley's eyes, to compose treacly sonnets in his head to the lines of his face when he was looking at Aziraphale like he’d sprouted wings. (But he has been staring _far too long as it was_ ) 

“See something?” he babbled. “No, haven't - haven't seen anything, just I was - well I was in the office, working - what _are_ you _doing_ here so late?” 

“It's alright if I'm here after hours?” There was suddenly a chink in the armor of Crowley’s smug expression. “It doesn't bother you or -”

“No! No of course not, not - not in the least.” 

“I shouldn't be too much longer anyway, just a few things to finish up.”

“Well - same for me. I'll leave you to it.”

Crowley remained until Aziraphale started pulling on his coat, at which point he packed up his laptop and followed him out. They shared the elevator down, chatting about the dreadful music being played over the tinny speakers, the acute weirdness of being practically the only ones in a building that was usually filled with people, the absurdity of the lobby decor. Before Aziraphale knew it he had mistakenly followed Crowley out to the carpark, where Crowley was walking towards - 

“You actually _drive_ that car?” Aziraphale exclaimed, looking at the antique Bentley ahead of them. “Through _London?_ ”

“No, I tow it on a line behind me,” Crowley replied. “Of _course_ I drive it.” 

“It’s - ah - it's quite lovely.”

“Thanks.” 

Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to say, so he checked his watch instead and promptly grumbled at the time. 8:15. 

“Suppose I'll go find a bite to eat,” Aziraphale muttered, mostly to himself. His favorite sushi restaurant stopped taking orders at 8:30 and he had no desire to be the needy customer whining about deserving an exception. 

“I was thinking the same,” Crowley said, fiddling with his keys. His face was turned away, and Aziraphale couldn’t have seen anything with those damned glasses back on his face, anyway. ( _Sunglasses at night, of all the things._ ) “Would you - would you like to join me?” 

For a moment, only one, mind, it seemed as if the whole of Aziraphale’s world had shrunken down to the keys twirling in Crowley’s hand, and all that they meant. Aziraphale could see the whole of how the night would go, or some version of it, anyway. He could say yes, he could get in Crowley’s ridiculous car and go out for a night of - of drinking with someone he obviously found very attractive, someone he would very much like to take home, who perhaps even seemed open to the idea of _being_ taken home _by_ him - 

And then there would be the goodbye, there would be fine fingers (that couldn’t type correctly) picking up expertly tailored clothes off his floor while Aziraphale made light conversation to cover up the fact that there was an ache blooming in his chest. That would be followed by blithe promises that would never come to pass, followed by falling asleep alone, waking up alone. 

There would be the next few days of awkward side glances and strained conversation. 

There would be Gabriel, raging at him to shake the high heavens for - for what? He could almost _hear_ Gabriel in his head _“I tell you to watch out for him, watch out for this company, and you go and - and go off sleeping with the enemy?”_ Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Better not,” Aziraphale said, before Crowley’s smile could get the better of him. He tried very much not to notice how that same smile writhed, died, became a ghost of itself before his eyes. 

“Eh, suit yourself,” Crowley shrugged. “See you tomorrow, yeah?” Then he waved awkwardly, got into his car and was out of sight before Aziraphale could change his mind. 

When Friday rolled around Crowley didn’t show up until one in the afternoon, moving slowly, wincing at loud noises, and when Aziraphale took pity on him enough to bring him a glass of water, Crowley sharply told him it was the _least he could do_. 

“Whatever is _that_ supposed to mean?” Aziraphale asked, but instead of answering Crowley’s face flushed red from forehead to chin and he began distractedly rooting through the drawers of his desk, as if looking for something. 

“Crowley?” 

“Sorry, I just - I have a lot of work, and this headache isn’t going anywhere. We can talk next week?” 

Aziraphale didn’t even take Crowley up on his offer, and yet he got the blithe promises anyway.

Crowley resolutely typed at his computer until five in the afternoon, at which time he bid farewell to everyone else in the office and left without another word. 

* * *

So it went for the next week. Crowley would show up late, putter about, and occasionally steal moments of Michael, Mr. Young, or Anathema's time to query them about their process, their methods, their _efficiency_ , and leave promptly by five. Aziraphale was not put out by the fact that Crowley hadn’t asked him a single thing since that night in the carpark, _not at all_. It wasn’t - Crowley had gone home and decided that it wasn't - that it wasn’t appropriate, yes, that was it. It was nothing against Aziraphale _personally_ , it was merely - 

Aziraphale was tossing a ceramic paperweight from side to side as he tried to reason himself happier (a process that _rarely_ bore fruit) when there was a soft knock on the open door. 

The only person who knocked like that was - 

“Hey Aziraphale-”

“Oh! Hello Crowley! Come in!” Aziraphale bit the inside of his mouth and determined to tone it down a few degrees henceforth as he welcomed Crowley into the office. 

“Nah, don’t want to interrupt you, just wanted to know if you’re free for lunch today?” 

Aziraphale knocked the paperweight off his desk, where it splintered into a million pieces. 

“Christ I’m sorry I’m -” Crowley moved from the door to the floor faster than Aziraphale could even get up. “I didn’t mean - it’s just to discuss work things, I -” 

“No, No,” Aziraphale began, then realized his error. “I mean _yes_ we could - I would like to - I’m free today. For lunch. If you are - to discuss work. Things” _Excellent, Aziraphale. Very smooth._ They both took a second to breathe, and within the span of that breath it occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley was on his knees in his office. And even though his hands were full of shards which had been a paperweight shaped like a stack of books, and even though Aziraphale’s chair was _nowhere near him_ , he imagined what this would look like to anyone passing by - anyone who heard the crash and came to check on him, like Michael, Anathema or god forbid Gabriel - and he sprang up like his chair was on fire. 

“Oh - alright, that’s good then,” Crowley replied. He stood as well, and dropped the broken pieces into the bin. “I’ll uh… pick you up twelve thirty then? Well, not really pick you up obviously, I’ll meet you here… or out on the floor? Unless -”

“Here will be fine,” Aziraphale assured him. 

“And don’t worry we won’t be - it’s not like we’re really _going_ anywhere-”

“Oh no?” Aziraphale tried very hard not to sound disappointed. It’s not like he had been thinking about the night Crowley had asked him to dinner for the last week. Not in the least. He hadn’t been thinking about where they might have gone, what sort of cuisine Crowley favored, what kind of wine he might have -” Too late, he realized that Crowley was still talking. 

“- figured that wouldn’t be the best so I thought we might go up to the roof? Michael said it’s alright up there - there’s chairs and things, although I’m not sure I liked the way she _looked_ at me when she said it -”

“Yes! I mean, she’s right, it _is_ rather nice up there. Quiet.”

“Good, great, yeah it’s whatever you like, an -” Crowley coughed a moment, before recovering “- and I’ll grab us some lunch from the coffee shop across the street. Any preferences? Sandwiches or otherwise?”

“No, I’m sure whatever you get will be just fine, but, well - perhaps a cup of Earl Grey?” 

“You sure?” 

Aziraphale was not sure. What he favored from the shop, what he really _wanted_ was - well, it was childish, and Crowley would - 

“Yes.”

“A cup of Earl Grey,” Crowley clarified again, “not a cup of cocoa like I saw you drinking yesterday morning?”

There was a feeling creeping into Aziraphale’s heart, a feeling that was as warm and gold as the freckles in Crowley’s eyes that Aziraphale had only managed to catch small glimpses of when those dreadful glasses were absent. 

Oh. 

Oh _no._

“That… that would be rather nice… I think.” 

“Sure.” The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched. “See you around twelve thirty then.” 

* * *

At precisely twelve thirty eight, two men walked out onto the roof of the Celestial Publishing building. A few iron tables and chairs, set out for warmer days, were empty, and there was a potted plant on each table. The poor things were struggling from the lack of attention, and when they sat down Crowley reached out and grazed one of the leaves, as if in encouragement. 

The chairs and table were a bit chilly, and the cool breeze whipping the top of the building didn’t help matters. In a coat, sweater, dress shirt and vest Aziraphale was quite comfortable, but he worried a bit for Crowley, with nothing to protect him from the cold except his well fitted clothes and a thin blazer. 

If he was uncomfortable, he made no mention of it (though his nose turned rather red right away), and he got right down to business, pulling out a folder and a pen and making some notes. Aziraphale took the time to enjoy the sandwiches and the large cup of cocoa Crowley had brought for him, and wondered at the iced coffee and pastry that sat on Crowley’s side of the table, untouched. Crowley didn’t make much conversation, just asked him a few preliminary questions, including his name (You already know it. Ah yes, couldn’t forget it, could I?), his age (Is the exact number really necessary? Don’t tell me you’re one of those celebrating the fifteenth anniversary of your twenty ninth birthday?), and how long he had worked for the company ( _Too long, I think._ , is what Aziraphale thought, but he said ten years, which was close enough). 

“Right then,” Crowley said, flipping a page in the folder. “Let’s get to the meat of it. How long does it take you to edit a manuscript?” 

“Well that depends, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale sat back in his chair. “The genre, the experience of the author -”

“Just an estimate will be fine.” 

“Possibly about a minute for each page?”

“That’s much faster than the rest of the staff.”

“You’ll find the rest of the staff is the rest of the staff for a reason, I should think.”

“I _should think_ , you ever hear that pride is a sin, an -”

That slip of the tongue again, like Crowley had done earlier in Aziraphale’s office. 

“I _do_ hear that, yes. I shall have to rely on my other _virtues_ , I suppose. Crowley’s face was unreadable for a moment, and then he dutifully returned to the questions at hand. 

Finally, after twenty minutes of discussing his process, his feel for a work, and all the rest, Crowley leaned back in his chair, flipped over to another page, and tapped his pen thoughtfully against the paper.

“The rest of these are just little personality questions, don’t worry so much about them-”

“Oh - Anathema tried to do this once. She got _very_ frustrated with me, something about my star chart being all wrong.”

“Ah yes, _star charts_ , I should have been consulting her this whole time.” 

“She’s very…” Aziraphale searched for the word. “Enthusiastic.” Crowley arched an eyebrow at the choice of word. 

“Enthusiastic?”

“In a manner of speaking.” 

“This is not like star charts.” 

“Oh good, I might not get it all wrong then,” Azirapahle gamely motioned him to proceed. 

The questions were not as strange as Aziraphale had been expecting. Little questions about scenarios and decisions, a bit too trolley problem for his tastes, and he had no idea how any of this was supposed to help Crowley program software for his department, but Crowley made encouraging sounds as he made little tic marks on his papers, and so Aziraphale kept answering. 

“Now this last one is a bit - well it’s a bit strange -” 

“Because the rest of them have been so standard, I imagine?” 

“Yes. Now let me finish.”

Aziraphale sighed, as if he was the most put upon person in all of the world. 

“This one is a bit of a riddle - it usually trips people up a bit, let’s say - and only because you’re not like the rest of the _completely_ intolerable people I’m _usually_ building for, I’ll even give you a hint.”

“Oh? Not completely intolerable, you say?”

“I _thought_ I said hush,”

“What you _said_ was be quiet”

“Well you’re not doing that _either_.” 

“Fine, yes, continue.”

“So, _like I was saying_ , I’ll give you one hint. And the hint is this. Never assume.”

“Never assume?” Crowley gave up trying to call out Aziraphale’s interruptions. 

“Yes. Now here we go. So a detective breaks into an apartment, and finds Harry and Grace lying on the floor, dead.”

“Oooh, a mystery!” Aziraphale refrained from clapping his hands in delight, but only just. Crowley’s lip quirked, and he continued. 

“Beside them was a small pool of water and some fragments of broken glass. Above them, on a sofa looking down at them, was a pet cat, his back arched. The detective concluded, without further investigation, that the victims had died of strangulation. How was this conclusion possible?” 

Aziraphale listened intently, and almost blurted out the answer before Crowley had finished. Hrm. But he _had_ been told to never assume. What if what he was assuming was the answer was the wrong assumption? Or was his assumption correct and the majority of assumptions wrong? Why was the word assume so strange? How many people had Crowley asked this question? Did he know how fetching he looked when the sunlight caught his hair and the wind blew it about just so? 

“Aziraphale? Do you give up?”

“Of - of _course not!”_ He fumbled, trying to regain his footing in the conversation before it went wandering off in contemplation of how it would feel to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “The only thing is… well…” He blustered to himself about the silliness of the thing, but - “Were Harry and Gracie goldfish?” Crowley’s face burst into a smile, a real smile, very much like the one Aziraphale had been graced with on Thursday. 

“No,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “They weren't goldfish. There were rare tropical fish. Just… You know.” He mumbled something as he turned away that Aziraphale didn’t quite catch. If pressed, and his reason couldn’t get the better of him, he would have sworn Crowley said “Like you,” and all the self deprecating his inner monologue could muster was not enough to quash the fluttery feeling in the region of his heart. 

Aziraphale thought about making a small quip. 

He thought about telling Crowley that if he wanted his phone number he didn’t have to drum up all this bluster, he could just _ask_. He even opened his mouth to say so. 

But then Crowley turned to him with that crooked smile, and all bravery went right out the window. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said, breathlessly. 

“Yes?”

“I can’t feel my fingers.” 

Azirapahle opened his eyes wide, saw the barely imperceptible shiver Crowley had been trying to hide, trembling in his hands. 

“Crowley, why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t wait for an answer before taking off his coat and putting it around Crowley’s bony shoulders, heedless of Crowley’s sputtered protests. “You’ll catch your death out here. And _iced coffee_ , really, dear.” He bundled Crowley off the roof and back down the office, where he asked Anathema to make him a cup of hot tea with honey and lemon. He wanted to do more, but Gabriel called down to have a conference call with the whole office for two hours about _nothing_ (at least nothing that Aziraphale could remember was important, Anathema or Michael would catch anything he missed) and he was stuck answering emails for the rest of the day.

Crowley left the office promptly at five, as he usually did, nowadays. But Aziraphale found a note pinned to the coat he left over his chair, in a startlingly lovely handwriting. 

“Thanks for the coat. See you tomorrow.”

It felt like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit with the goldfish is ripped off entirely (with a bit of modification) from the source material because its my second favorite part of the movie and it was too perfct to change. Seriously, go watch Desk Set if you haven't done so! Promises to get back to Michael and the rest of the gang next chapter! Come over and yell at me on [@soft-october-night](https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the office and the antics!

Adam was Mr. Young’s son. Adam was also eleven, rambunctious, imaginative, and did not know which areas of the office were suitable for running in and which were thoroughfares where anyone (who happened to be paying more attention to their daydream than their surrounding) might be crashed into by a boy pretending he was a pirate. 

It was in this exact manner that Aziraphale was informed that Mr. Young had brought Adam to work with him. (But to his credit, it was a rather _good_ daydream, featuring all manner of things he had tried very hard to _stop_ daydreaming about.)

“Sorry Mr. Fell.” Adam picked up the book that had gone flying out of Aziraphale’s hand, and handed it back, one eye on his father the whole time. Mr. Young was staring at him _very sternly_. (Or as sternly as Mr. Young could, which was rather reminiscent of Winnie the Pooh before he’d had his morning honey.)

“That - That’s alright Adam,” Aziraphale replied, steadying himself against the nearest desk. “Why don’t we try to be a little more careful?” 

“I would have been only I’ve just finished writing a new chapter of my book and I needed to get into the _character_ of the pirate because otherwise how would I know if-”

“Adam, don’t bother Mr. Fell,” Mr. Young interrupted. “I told you we can talk all about your book on the way home,” Mr. Young interrupted. 

Adam nodded solemnly, in the manner of all children who have learned that their interests must be dealt with _later_ and careened off to some other corner of the office to further embody the character of his pirate captain. 

“To _what_ do we owe the pleasure?” Michael asked Mr. Young, having set down her phone with a faint smile on her lips. “Of your offspring gracing us with his presence, I mean.”

“Oh, well,” Mr. Young said, and tried to escape the rest of the question by burying his head in his work. 

“Well what?” Michael needled. 

“Well, it’s a school holiday and Dierdre - you remember Dierdre,” (Everyone at the office remembered Dierdre. Mr. Young’s wife was a vibrant, smiling woman whom Mr. Young looked at as if she hung the moon itself.) “She had a big something-or-other at work today and, well, here we are.” 

“Ah,” Michael replied. “Well,” something crashed in the depths of the office, promptly followed by Adam calling “IT'S ALRIGHT, I’LL CLEAN IT UP.” 

“Such a _darling_ child,” Michael said through a strained smile. 

Aziraphale made straight for his office, where he expected to huddle for the rest of the day. Once safely ensconced inside he closed the door, better to safely claim ignorance to all ensuing crashes, shouts, or screams that might happen out on the floor. He lasted all of thirty minutes until - 

“Mr. Crowley I’m terribly sorry -” 

Aziraphale was out the door in an instant. 

There was a considerable amount of hot coffee rapidly spilling all over Crowley’s desk, and was in danger of reaching the fancy laptop in the center before Anathema swooped in with a towel to arrest its progress. 

“Mr. Crowley I’m so sorry,” Mr. Young was saying. “He’s usually better behaved than this. I'm sure I don’t know what's come over him.” This was _exactly_ how Adam was behaved whenever Mr. Young had been obliged to bring the boy into work with him, although who could blame the boy, Aziraphale wondered. There was precious little for a child to do in an editing office. 

“That’s alright,” said Crowley. He tried to casually wipe his hand on his trousers, but Aziraphale could see where the coffee had gotten him. “It was just an accident. What were you trying to show me, Adam?” 

“Mr. Crowley at least let me buy you another - ” Mr. Young interjected, but Crowley again waved him off. 

“It’s not that important,” Crowley shrugged. “It happens.” He turned again to Adam, indicating the sheaf of papers in his hands. “What have you got there?” 

“It’s a story,” Adam replied. “And everyone else is busy but then I heard Michael and Anathema talking about you and I figured you would have time to look because Michael told Anathema that you hardly do anything around this office except moon over -”

“What kind of a story?” Crowley interrupted swiftly. 

“It’s about pirates and mysteries and music!” Adam exclaimed, delighted to be asked. “It’s much better than whatever _Dad_ is working on.”

“Now see here Adam, Mr. Crowley is very busy and you should -”

“Oh I’m sure it is. Why don’t you show it to me?” 

“Alright!” Adam pulled up a stool and sat beside Crowley, flipping through the pages of a manuscript written in an impressively illegible childish scrawl, explaining the plot, forgetting the middle part and having to double back, looking up at the ceiling as he made impromptu edits to his own work. 

Aziraphale lightly bit the inside of his mouth and tried not to smile. 

* * *

An hour or so later, he almost bumped into Crowley at the water cooler. 

“Oh Aziraphale, I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Dear, you run into me practically fifteen times a day.” Aziraphale almost stumbled over the endearment, but it was worth it to see the blush spread from Crowley’s cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Yes. Well. My coffee-” he twirled a hand in a direction of where the spill had been. “Anyway, I was going to see about going across the street, doing a-” he ground out the next phrase between his teeth, as if it physically pained him to say “bit of a _coffee run_ for the office. Would you, you know, d’you want anything?” 

“That would be lovely, yes. You know what I like.”

“I do.” Crowley smiled fondly at him, and Aziraphale needed to do something about that thrice damned warmth welling up in his chest before he couldn’t control it anymore and just -

“Can I come?” Adam suddenly materialized at Crowley’s elbow. “It’s so boring here.”

“It _IS_ so boring here!” Crowley agreed, quick and bright. “But you’ll have to ask your dad first.” Adam rounded on his father, who was immersed entirely in his work and barely able to understand his son’s queries, much less respond intelligently to them. 

“Dad, Dad, can I go with Mr. Crowley? Please please?”

“Where are you -”

“Just across the street, it’ll be fun! Ill get the biscuits I know you like and make sure Mr. Fell doesn’t eat them.”

“I wasn’t aware that-”

“Oh its okay, they’re really good biscuits, I can go get them right?” 

“I mean if Mr. Crowley doesn’t -”

“He doesn’t, thanks dad!” Adam was out of the office like a shot, and Crowley was obliged to turn his usual saunter into a low trot just to keep up. Mr. Young blinked after them, still wondering what he had just agreed too and just _what_ Adam had said about Mr. Fell and the missing biscuits. He ultimately found the task a bit too taxing and, taking advantage of the interruption in his work, announced to no one in particular that he was going to sort through the office mail that had been piling up throughout the day. 

The moment Crowley and Adam were out of earshot, (and the quiet babble of Adam’s voice had faded away into the hall) Anathema turned to face Aziraphale, who was still standing at the water cooler as if there weren’t a pile of manuscripts on his desk that wanted tending to. From the twist of the smile on her face, Aziraphale knew he would _hate_ whatever she was about to say next. 

“Tall, handsome, good with kids,” Anathema leaned back in her chair and counted on her fingers. “Smart, _totally_ into you, tell me why you haven’t actually _done_ anything about this yet?” Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth several times before sputtering an answer. 

“Well I -”

“Who's to say they _haven't_?” Michael pushed off her desk and wheeled over in her chair. “ _I_ ' _ve_ been keeping this under wraps but I happen to know _for a fact_ that the two of you left together late last Thursday night. What were the two of you up to in this office so late, I wonder?”

“You know that I - well there was all that work Gabriel dropped on us - who on _earth_ told you that?”

“I never reveal my sources. And sure, let’s say I believe that on your part, but why was _he_ here so late?”

“I’m sure he had some work -”

“He hardly has _any_ work!” Anathema exclaimed. “Half the time when he’s sitting at that desk he’s playing games while waiting for the program to compile!”

“Now that’s not fair we have no idea what goes into building a software like-”

“I know whose buttons _he’d_ like to be pushing.” 

“Oh yeah, I bet he had some _hard_ work to get done.”

“Some _spreadsheets_ to do _after hours,_ ” Aziraphale saw no reason why he shouldn't get in on the game himself. 

“Package for you, sir,” said Mr. Young, throwing a small box towards Aziraphale and totally ignorant of the uproarious laughter that followed him back to his own desk. 

“If we’re going to talk about _my_ late night movements,” Aziraphale began, once the three of them had laughed themselves out, “we should _probably_ talk about _your_ mysterious lunch dates down to the mailroom.” Aziraphale was bluffing - he had no idea _where_ Michael had been going for lunch of late - but when Michael made a bit of a huffing sound and Anathema’s eyes went wide he knew he hit the mark. 

“Who told you _that_?” she said, with a deadpan glare that Aziraphale might have been afraid of if only the taste of his victory were a little less sweet. 

“You just did, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Ohhhh my GOD he _got you_!” Anathema exclaimed. “Who is it?” 

“I wouldn’t mind an answer to that myself, make me feel a bit less like it's only my love life that’s on display here.”

“ _What_ love life?” Michael muttered, but there was no bitterness in it. “It’s… hrm. It’s _VERY_ new, and I don’t-” Michael looked away, and Aziraphale saw, not for the first time, the person Michael was underneath the sarcasm, the jokes, the witty comebacks, the network of intelligence agents strewn throughout the company. 

“Why Michael, you’re _worried_!” Aziraphale was as endeared as he was delighted. “You’re… are you _afraid?_ ” Michael shuddered. 

“Don’t say it like that. But as a matter of fact, _yes_. No one knows what this place can do to a relationship more than me, right? Been doing a bit of digging my own grave, these last few years. Going to have to do a bit of a lie in it.”

Aziraphale could throw in a barb or too, make up for all the teasing he had endured of late. But he and Crowley, they weren’t, well, they weren’t anything, really. (And if a voice in his head said something along the lines of “Not _yet_ , anyway,” well it could just keep its observations to itself.) If Michael had something going on with someone down in the mailroom, of all places, he couldn’t imagine what sort of awful dreck the rumor mill would conjure up about such a romance. (“Just two different types of people,” they might hiss, as if the people who handled the mail were somehow lesser because they didn’t have a window and a nice view.) 

“That’s alright.” Aziraphale patted her hand where it rested on Anathema’s desk. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Me neither,” Anathema agreed. “Although I have to admit, it’s kind of nice to know you’re just as soft and squishy as the rest of us.” 

“Never use those words again. And don’t tell Newt, either. Boy’s got a sweet face but doesn’t know what he should say and what he shouldn’t.” 

“Why would I tell Newt?” Anathema asked, not meeting either of their eyes. Michael threw up her hands. 

“I _swear_ this office is turning into a damned Shakespearean comedy!” she blurted. “I’m swearing it now, I _refuse_ to get married alongside _either of you_.”

“Oh now don’t say that,” Aziraphale consoled. “We both know you’ll be lost without my eye for color.”

“Ah, yes, a _tartan wedding_ , my girlhood _dream_.”

“Tartan is _stylish_!” 

“And multiple marriages are good luck!” Anathema interjected. “My family has an old legend that says something along the lines of ‘multiple consummate joy’ although my aunt thinks it's really about some kind of an medieval swingers club or even a -”

“This conversation IS OVER!” Michael shoved off Anathema’s desk, picked up the phone, and entered into a conversation with no one, just as Crowley and Adam returned from the shop with drinks for everyone in hand. 

“What conversation?” Crowley asked. 

Anathema was giggling too hard to answer him, and Aziraphale took advantage of the confusion to squirrel away to his office before the same was posed to him. 

* * *

The gentle patter of rain on the windows lulled Aziraphale into a comfortable daze for the remainder of the day, and this daze was promptly shattered the moment Gabriel arrived in the office at twenty past five, just as Aziraphale had bid everyone a good evening and was making his own preparations to leave. 

“Aziraphale, so good to see you!” Gabriel’s voice was smooth, polished, and Aziraphale _highly_ doubted its sincerity, although he reconsidered when he saw the large manila folder tucked under Gabriel’s arm. If _he_ was Gabriel, knowing what Gabriel intended to do with that folder, he would be _rather_ pleased to see Aziraphale indeed. 

“Gabriel - well, yes, it is rather good, before you set that down you should know that -”

“Yes, yes, it is a rather nice day, isn’t it. Listen Aziraphale, I know we’ve had our differences, I know that last presentation has a VERY big miscommunication and I’m _so_ glad we moved on _so_ quickly from it. So, as a _big_ favour to you, I’m willing to let you try again! I know you won’t disappoint us _this time_.”

“Gabriel I actually -” 

“It’s nothing much, just the report on the incoming authors. You know more about that than I do anyway, it won’t take you long at all.”

“Well-”

“This one is _important_ , Aziraphale.” Gabriel stressed the end of his name, made it sound more like _-fail_ than _-fell_ , although Aziraphale was sure it was simply an accident. “I would do it myself but She’s invited me to go _golfing_ up north this weekend. GOLF, Aziraphale! The game of CEOS! The game of politicians!”

“Ah, yes I’m sure you’re a very accomplished player -”

“I’ve never played before! But how hard could it be? It’s just concentration and athleticism. Anyone could play, _you_ could play!” He chuckled. “Although you're more the type for the golf _cart_ , eh? Ever look into the link for that treadmill desk I sent you? Sandalphon ordered one last month! He _loves_ it, says it's a total life changer.” 

According to Michael, Sandalphon now spent 90% of his workday typing on a laptop on the couch in the breakroom to avoid having to actually _use_ such a contraption, although he always made sure to sneak back in and hop on the thing when he knew Gabriel would be about. Knowing all that, the comment _shouldn’t_ have stung as much as it did, and yet Aziraphale’s eyes flitted around the office to find some relief from the intense smile carved into Gabriel’s face. But everywhere he looked he only found more things to be ashamed of. The cup of cocoa Crowley had brought him, the empty package of biscuits he snuck in for an afternoon snack, the particular way his skin bunched around the ring he wore on his finger. He curdled inside, like milk gone bad, and meekly extended his hand for the folder. 

“Great!” Gabriel exclaimed, as he traded off his responsibility. See you on Monday then!” Aziraphale made some noise or another of goodbye and closed his eyes as Gabriel was gone in a cloud of his own smug. 

It was not often Aziraphale felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He enjoyed his dinners and drinks and sweets, but now he was left feeling _acutely_ aware of how the waistband of his pants dug into his belly, how his hips pressed into the sides of his chair, how - 

“Aziraphale?” There was a soft knock at the door. _What was Crowley still doing here?_ Had he been there the whole time? How much had he heard? Perhaps if Aziraphale kept his eyes closed he wouldn’t have to open them to see pity in Crowley’s eyes, wouldn’t have to endure the million and one platitudes, the sympathy. He didn’t think it was possible to be more embarrassed than he already was, and yet here was Crowley, in his slim cut suits and his well coiffed hair and his handsome - well, that was certainly enough of _that_ \- and he had heard Gabriel talking about - 

“Oh. I suppose you heard - all that then?” 

“That puffed up, pompous, neon toothed, holier than thou, snobbish, self satisfied _arsehole_!” He opened his eyes and Crowley was standing in the middle of his office, agitated and ranting. 

“I mean who on EARTH does that - that _bastard_ think he is? Talking to you like - I have half a mind to hack into his email, send that _awful_ book of his to the whole COMPANY this time, his signature all over it, but that’s too good for him, I should -”

“What?” 

“You’re right, it’ll be a company wide email where he forwards his teeth whitening appointment or - or hair plugs, that’ll cut -”

“Crowley, you don’t-”

“Awful, that’s what he is. I mean how _dare_ he?” 

“Crowley!”

“Yes - oh - no, I’m sorry, here I am ranting and I’m sure you have a better idea, clever mind like yours-”

“We don’t… there doesn’t have to be any sort of revenge at all. Not for _that_ at least.”

“Aziraphale?” 

“Well…” Aziraphale looked down at his twiddling thumbs, twisted his ring around one chubby finger. “I mean… he’s a bit right, isn’t he?” Crowley’s mouth dropped open, like Aziraphale had uttered a particularly colorful string of curses. 

“Are you - you’re not being- No _he’s not right_ ! You’re _not_ \- you’re _fine_ just as you are!” 

Azirapahle’s heart lodged somewhere in his throat, and he coughed to try and loosen it.

“That’s - that’s very kind of you-”

“It's not It’s the truth. Now before you decide to tell me I’m wrong again - and I’m not - I suggest we both get the hell out of this office and away from the stupefying smog of corporate culture, yes?” Aziraphale couldn’t find a single protest to that argument, so he allowed his things, including the folder to be bundled into his briefcase, his coat to be presented to him, his lack of an umbrella gently mocked (“You, Michael and everyone else, I swear it’s like none of you ever heard of a weather report.”) and his arm to be taken and steered down the hall to the elevator, Crowley prattling on practically all the while about little nothings, his voice a welcome distraction from the self-deprecating nature of Aziraphale’s thoughts. 

“Your plants are looking much better,” Crowley said once the elevator doors had closed and they were on their way down to the lobby. “Not drowning them anymore, I take it?” 

“You told me not too,” Aziraphale said. “You seemed like you knew what you were doing.” Crowley made as if he was going to say something, but then a flood of chatty passengers eager to get home for the weekend got on at the next floor, and he was silent the rest of the way. 

In the lobby, Crowley made for the front doors along with him instead of towards the car park in the back. 

“No fancy car today?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Unlike the rest of your office I actually _check_ the weather in the morning. That car doesn’t have a spot on it, I’m not about to go driving it through the rain just to prove I can.” 

“If you don’t want to drive your car through the rain I’m not sure London is the best place -”

“Hey you two!”

Every once in a while, an eccentric millionaire who owns a stake in some car manufacturer decides that it would be great fun to make an affordable car for university students and their younger siblings who will invariably inherit the vehicle. The car will be practical, reliable, a bit wobbly, and go down in history as one of the best selling and most bizarre cars ever made. 

Just such a vehicle, in electric blue, no less, pulled up in front of the building. Perhaps predictably, when the driver’s side window was rolled down, the pair found that it was driven by none other than Newt, helpless thrall of Anathem and he of the precarious stacks of payroll documents, beckoning them over. 

“I’ve got plenty of space, if you need a lift home! Bit of lousy weather out today.” 

Newt’s car didn’t look like it could support its _own_ driver, let alone two passengers, but the rain was coming down in a manner which suggested that the weather was annoyed with him, specifically, so Aziraphale wasn’t one to argue. He slid into the backseat, assuming that Crowley would take the passenger, and was met with a veritable flood of emotions when instead Crowley crowded next to him in the back. 

“Alright then?” Newt called. Aziraphale replied in a voice much higher than usual that everything was fine, thanked him, and gave him the address to his cramped and snug Soho apartment. Newt began to put the car in gear. 

“Hang on,” said Crowley. 

“Whatever for?” Azriraphale asked, his curiosity overcoming the daze that was having Crowley so close. 

“For _that_ ,” Crowley replied, pointing to the front door of the building, where Anathema had just emerged and was now staring up at the sky as if in personal affront. 

“Oh!” Newt exclaimed. “I didn’t - she probably won’t need - we shouldn’t just assume -”

“Oi!” Crowley called to Anathema, heedless of Newt’s protests. “Newt here’s giving us _all_ a ride home!” A grateful smile broke out on her face and she rushed to the passenger side door. The onslaught of wind and rain invaded the car for only a moment before she closed the door, reached across the space and planted a kiss on Newt’s cheek. 

Newt promptly yanked the wheel into traffic and earned more than a few angry honks for his trouble. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Anathema told him, trying to wring out her hair with her hands. Aziraphale reached into his pocket (practically leaning over Crowley in the process) to hand her a handkerchief. 

“Thanks! I’m furious with my divinations, they promised _nothing_ but clear skies all day. I didn’t even bring an umbrella! But luck for me that you came along!” This was directed at Newt, who was gripping the steering wheel like it owed him money and staring out at the road with the focus and determination of a Queen’s Guard beset by an especially irritating American tourist. Anathema, oblivious to Newt’s distress, continued, wondering where she had gone wrong in her predictions, considered calling her mother to see if her tools had been equally muddled of late, and wondering if she shouldn’t just turn on the telly to get the weather tomorrow morning. 

With Anathema taking a commanding lead of the conversation in the front, Aziraphale and Crowley were free to pursue one of their own, and they promptly took advantage of the time by saying absolutely nothing and staring out of opposite windows at the gray sky and gray buildings. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to talk! It was just, well, Aziraphale was very aware of each place they touched in the cramped space, the warm place where their knees knocked together every time the car hit a bump in the road, the way the curve of his hip kept invading Crowley’s space, the way Crowley didn’t seem to mind at all but just kept fiddling with his hands, as if he wasn’t sure where to put them. Aziraphale was so wound up about the whole thing that he hardly even noticed where they were going, and when Newt said “isn’t this it?” he was startled to find they had arrived outside his own apartment. 

“Thank you for the ride,” he said as he got out and made for the awning, and he should say more, shouldn’t he? He should have at least said goodbye to Crowley or Anathema, although the latter wouldn’t have noticed either way and _the former was getting out with him_. 

“Thanks,” Crowley said, and knocked on the top of the car twice, bidding Newt to drive off. He didn’t join Aziraphale under the awning, though. He stood out there in the pouring rain, six feet apart and Aziraphale must have been looking at him in the strangest way, because Crowley’s face fell and he raised his hands, as if in defense. 

“I just - wanted to give them time, you know? To themselves… work their own stuff out, I didn’t mean for - I mean I’ll just wait here and call a cab and…” He drifted off. Aziraphale was looking at the way the rain ran in rivulets down Crowley’s face, the way his perfectly coiffed hair had been flattened by the downpour, the strangely vulnerable turn of his lip and he knew without another doubt in his head that if he invited Crowley into his flat he would kiss him before the night was over and damn the consequences and the fear and everything else. 

If he had thought about it for just another moment, if he had just a _bit_ of patience, he would have been able to reason up why that was a bad idea, would have been able to leave Crowley down on the pavement while he went up to his cozy apartment alone. But Aziraphale was tired of patience and waiting for anything (or at least that was the only excuse he could think of later when he tried to work out how his heart managed to outrace his brain and reach his voice first). 

“Nonsense,” he found himself saying. “Wouldn’t you rather come up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE AND THE NEXT ONE WILL BE EVEN MORE SO! Come yell at me here [@soft-october-night](https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

In an office on the twelfth floor of the Celestial Publishing building (which had a good enough view to impress visitors but was _not_ enough for his own ambitions), two hours after everyone else had gone home, Gabriel fired off yet another text to his subordinate, although he feared that this too, would go as unanswered as those gone before it. 

He allowed himself exactly one minute to fume (he’d read in a book on leadership as a young man that this was the length of time a good manager should grant to the expression of his more base emotions) and tapped his pen in an irritated tattoo along his desk calendar. 

Aziraphale had the wrong folder. 

To be fair, Aziraphale had the wrong folder specifically because Gabriel had _handed_ him the wrong folder, but that was just semantics. The real problem was that this _kept happening._ How? He had double and _triple_ checked the contents of each. He had _clearly marked_ which folder was _not_ to be given to Aziraphale, and left the presentation folder unblemished. How could he have gotten it wrong? Unless…. Could there be subterfuge, in _his_ office? 

No, that was impossible. Only he and Sandalphon had been in all day! Sandalphon sabotage him, how ridiculous! Gabriel gave a sensible chuckle at his own joke. That yes-man would ride his coattails all the way to the top, if he could. 

Gabriel sighed. He _had_ been working too much (look at his complexion, after all, all those dark spots under his eyes were _quite_ unbecoming), and there _had_ been so much excitement after Her secretary had called down and made the invitation to the golf outing over the weekend. Unless the rough gentleman who came to collect the mail had something to do with it (and the very idea that man would even know what he was looking at) - well, Gabriel laughed to himself again.

As unlikely as it seemed, Gabriel somehow got his folders mixed up in all the hubbub, and accidentally gave Aziraphale the one that was _supposed_ to go to an agent he had been in talks with. Now the folder for the report sat on his desk, Aziraphale was long gone from the office, and there was no way Gabriel would be able to concentrate on his golf game with _this_ hanging over his head. 

There was nothing for it. He would just have to drive over to Aziraphale apartment - no, his _flat_ \- and make the exchange himself. 

* * *

As he led Crowley up the thin staircase to his flat above, Aziraphale was particularly aware of his body. In all the similar trips he had made during the five years he had lived there, he had never before reflected on the way his hand slid sensuously along the chipped-paint bannister, the delicate tread of his feet on each creaky step. 

Of course, it had been rather a long time since he _also_ felt the sensation of another’s eyes on his back, watching him go up. 

“Here we are!” he said, perhaps too brightly, and after a moment of the two of them dripping all over his welcome mat while he fumbled with the keys, Aziraphale opened the door. A warm slice of light spilled across his sitting room, illuminating the remains of his hastily consumed breakfast on the coffee table, the piles of books littering every surface, a dozen or so cups of tea left to languish about the room. A sense of shame took root in his chest, and he hesitated to flick on the lights. 

“So sorry about - well, I’m usually a bit tidier-” This was a lie, and by the manner in which Crowley scoffed at him Aziraphale could tell it wasn’t even a very _good_ lie. (Crowley _had_ seen his office many a time before, after all). But he couldn’t very well leave them in the dark all evening, so on the lights came, and Aziraphale tried not to watch Crowley’s face as he took his first look around. Inside Aziraphale’s heart warred two conflicting desires: the want to be extravagant and impressive and the need to be seen - to be _accepted_ \- as he was. 

“S’ like your office, isn’t it?” Crowley asked after a cursory inventory of the accommodations. 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s very you,” he shrugged, in the way Aziraphale noticed he often did when he had much more to say and lacked the words. “I like it.” He paused, “I appreciate there are no plants you might be torturing with overwatering.” With that Aziraphale laughed, Crowley grinned, and the warring desires in his heart signed a ceasefire and broke bread together. 

Aziraphale insisted on giving Crowley the grand tour. This took five minutes, as the entire flat consisted of nothing but the sitting room that also served as a dining room, the cramped kitchen, the bathroom, and (he hesitated before the last, but if he didn’t show it off it would be strange wouldn’t it? Might mean something if he didn’t) the bedroom, where his bed clothes were still mussed from tossing and turning about in the night. He turned to make some sort of a joke (that would surely come to him any moment) when he noticed that despite his smiles and polite nods Crowley was trying very hard not to make his shivering in his wet clothes obvious, and Aziraphale was reminded of their lunch on the rooftop. 

“Oh! My dear I’m sorry, lets get those things off right away!”

“Let’s _what_?” 

“The - well your clothes-” Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. “They’re - you’re _shivering_ , you should - well the bathroom is right there, you can - and I can - I mean I’m sure I have _something_ of mine here that will fit you.” He turned immediately to his closet, in an honest bid to find something for Crowley to wear as much as it was to hide the blush spreading across his face. 

‘Something of mine that will fit you’ turned out to be a flannel robe with a red and white checked pattern that Aziraphale only used around Christmas time. Aziraphale handed it to him with mention of “just at least until your clothes dry properly,” and Crowley took it with a short “thanks” before vanishing into the bathroom. 

“I’m afraid I’m not a very good cook,” Aziraphale called through the bathroom door after he emerged from the bedroom in a robe of his own (tartan, of course). He was trying very hard not to think about _many_ things, so he fiddled with drawers, looking for takeaway menus, as if different sorts of curries might distract him from-

“What about a book?” Crowley called. The tap was going, Crowley must not have heard him correctly. 

“I said I’m not a very good cook!”

“No, not lately, although the one Anathema was editing the other day wasn’t half bad till she caught me flipping through it.” 

“That’s not what I -” Aziraphale huffed affectionately. “That’s…” All the breath went out of Aziraphale as Crowley emerged from the bathroom. 

The robe did not fit him well at all, and he wound the belt twice around his waist. His hair was slicked back from his face, his glasses were off, and his eyes were wide, unguarded. Aziraphale might even say nervous. It was the smallest Crowley had ever seemed, and Aziraphale found a new and strange sort of protectiveness welling up inside him.

But Crowley caught Aziraphale staring, and twirled around, as if putting on a show. 

“Something here you fancy?” 

“Maybe,” Aziraphale replied with a half smile, just to see the other fluster. “But I’m afraid I’ve _no_ idea what to do about it.”

“About… what?”

“Dinner!” Aziraphale fanned several menus he’d found around the kitchen; Crowley exhaled and smiled. 

“Ah, _dinner_ , of _course_.”

“I would _like_ to cook for you, well, I mean for _us_ \- but I don’t have much in the way of ingredients, more of a baker than a chef, so I - well, I suppose we could get takeaway?”

“Nonsense, I saw plenty on the shelves over in your kitchen. Anything in the fridge?”

“Oh I couldn’t ask you to-”

“Well then it's a good thing you didn’t ask, isn’t it?” Offered, didn’t I?” Crowley grinned and Aziraphale stood aside. He could tell a losing argument when he saw one 

“I mean if you _insist_. Spices are in the cabinet above the stove.” Crowley stepped into the kitchen and set about making himself quite at home, exploring drawers and cabinets. He was half buried in the fridge when he let out a victorious sort of cry and emerged with his trophy in hand: a rather fancy cheese Aziraphale got for a dinner party he planned over the summer and never threw. 

“Shall we indulge?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale considered for a moment. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be right without wine, would it?” 

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” 

“Good thing for us there’s plenty in the rack in the other room.” 

“Oh - yes, _rather_ a good thing.” 

Crowley cut up the cheese and a nice sopressata he had found in further excavations of the refrigerator. Aziraphale found a fancy crystal decanter in the hall closet (he had been gifted it three Christmases past and never used) Within ten minutes they were chatting over charcuterie and sipping wine while Crowley stirred something rather divine smelling in a saucepan and pasta bubbled away in a pot beside it. 

“I didn’t -” Aziraphale began, indicating the stove, before reconsidering his wording. “You’re a man of many talents, I see,” he said instead, and when that smile spread over Crowley’s face he knew he had hit the mark right. 

“Oh, it's nothing like that,” Crowley said, in a manner which implied he was fairly preening with the compliment. “I’ve had a bunch of different jobs. Programming, child-care, food service. Cooking is like riding a… hmm. You know the one.Wheely - thing.” He shook his head but the word would not be dislodged so he gave up the game and went back to tending dinner like a saucier at a five star restaurant.

“This is _delicious_ , Crowley.” Aziraphale said after the first bite. The table was set with the nicest dishes he had, and they still paled in comparison to the quality of the food on them. 

“It's just sauteed garlic and brown butter sauce over pasta, it’s nothing-”

“Oh no now none of this false modesty. Don’t know what you’re doing, skills like that typing away at a computer all day.”

“A real loss to the culinary world, am I?” 

“I should say so. I’d also say you were trained by a professional.”

“You’ve caught me. I’m undercover with a secret society of chefs, we’ve infiltrated every corner of the publishing industry. It won’t be long now before our great plans come to fruition.”

“Oh? And what plans are these then?” Crowley shrugged. 

“Not my department I’m afraid. I’m more of a footsoldier of the coming cookbook apocalypse than a general.” 

“Ah well, be sure to have mercy on my department when you seize the reins of power.” 

Dinner stretched on somewhat longer than Aziraphale thought it might. He was having so much fun that he hardly cared that they ran clean through the first bottle of wine and were obliged to start on a second. Crowley finally grabbed some dishes and insisted he would clean. He had “an idea for a fancy little dessert” and wanted the kitchen to himself for a few minutes. Aziraphale followed him to hem and haw about cleaning (he didn’t actually _want_ to do the dishes, but it was more polite to make a good show of it) until Crowley successfully shooed him out the door.

Back in the sitting room he crashed down rather roughly upon the sofa, the wine in his glass sloshing over the sides and almost spilling all over the cushions, and for some reason he found this so funny he _giggled_ , giggled like he was fifteen years old and the boy he liked had just asked him if they could go to a movie together. He stopped that train of thought, because remembering being young and being excited a boy had asked another boy to the movies was an express line to a rather unhappy state of mind.

He thought instead of Crowley, who he last saw taking chocolate out of the cabinet. Crowley, who had made him dinner, was _cleaning their dishes_ , was probably up to his elbows in suds. Crowley was preparing a final course, and Aziraphale should perhaps find a nice port to conclude their meal. Yes. He would pour the small glasses of port, taking care that they were equal and nicely placed. He’d refold the napkins, rearrange the table, make it look just so. And then Crowley would come out of the kitchen with his hands full of some dessert he had made especially for him and his hands would be full and he would say “oh let me help you with that darling and Crowley’s bottom lip would drop open just slightly and then Aziraphale was going to do it, he was going to lean in, close his eyes and _kiss_ Crowley and just see what happened after. Yes. He was absolutely going to do that, and damn whatever got in the way. 

So of course that when the doorbell rang. 

Aziraphale stumbled off the sofa and shuffled towards the door, thinking about how funny it was that the alcohol never quite hit when you were sitting but the minute you stood up - well, that was another matter entirely. When the door was thrown open, the wide smile that Aziraphale held for the salesman or misplaced food delivery person fell instantly, because instead of some innocuous stranger he found himself face to face with -

“Gabriel?”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel had his hand extended, but when no reciprocal shake came to meet it he withdrew. “So glad you’re home, sure you would be! I tried texting but then I thought - well, he’s on the way and _of course_ he’ll be home.” 

“What - why are you-”

“Bit of a mixup with the folders again, I’m afraid. Don’t know _how_ that keeps happening but - well, no harm done, right?” He brandished a manilla folder identical to the one he had given Aziraphale earlier, except this one had “BOOK” written in large block letters on the front. “I tried to get a hold of you before everyone headed out but you know how… dedicated you are to leaving on time. So I figured I would just drive the updated version over myself, help out a bit off the company’s dime.” 

“That - that’s very-”

“Oh and I was also wondering if the department got those shirts I ordered for the soccer - oh, sorry, for the company “football” game next month?” He actually used finger quotes and Aziraphale had to stifle another giggle. “They were meant to arrive today. I tell you, this year is the year we take down those guys from accounting -”

“Gabriel I thought you were going -”

It was at this exact moment that Crowley emerged from the kitchen, holding two glasses of what looked suspiciously like a rather decadent chocolate mousse covered in whipped cream that, despite the absurdity of the whole situation, had Aziraphale’s mouth watering. Crowley had a spot of chocolate on the side of his mouth, evidence he had tasted the dessert before setting it out, and Aziraphale wanted to know what it would taste like if he -

“Yes, yes I’m due to leave tomorrow morning.” When it became clear Aziraphale wouldn’t be taking the folder from him Gabriel stepped through the door to put the folder on the table himself. “I’ll be _driving_ up, of course. I swear, sometimes you Brits act like two hours in a car - Oh, hello Mr. Crowley - might as well be some sort of cruel and unusual punishment!” He laughed, and then froze, as realization dawned with creeping horror. “Mr... Crowley?”

“Yes?” Crowley glanced up from where he set Aziraphale’s dessert down. 

“Why I - what’s the meaning of -”

“Is he joining us for dessert?” Crowley drawled to Aziraphale. “I’ve got to whip up some more cream if he is.” 

“Ah, I’m sure Gabriel would just prefer coffee, isn’t that right?” Aziraphale answered. He had a vague memory of Gabriel loudly decrying the perils of sugar at a team building event, and coffee was what those Americans wanted at every hour of the day or night, right? Gabriel wasn't helping, what with the way he kept opening and closing his mouth like a fish on a hot dock. 

The night he had envisioned lying in ruins, Aziraphale could now see two very different paths lying before him. In the first, he disavowed whatever this looked like, assuaged Gabriel and spent a miserable night alone after Crowley begged off the moment he could. But in other… well… 

Seeing Gabriel squirm really _was_ too delightful to pass up, wasn’t it? 

“Where is it?” Crowley asked. 

“The what?”

“The coffee.”

“Oh! I’ll - I’ll get it, you just -” he maneuvered Gabriel to an empty seat at the table and vanished into the kitchen. 

Crowley sat with his arms crossed, staring at Gabriel, his hand clasped around his glass of port without every coming to his lips. 

“Next time -” Gabriel began, and then stopped to collect his thoughts. “I should probably call first, next time.”

“Yes,” said Crowley. “Do that next time.” 

“I just - I didn’t think anyone would be here! Especially not-” The more aware of his surroundings Gabriel became, the more his brows drew together in the center. 

“Aziraphale! This is Mr. Crowley! In your _apartment_!”

“Is it?” Aziraphale called from the kitchen around a swallowed laugh. “I was _wondering_ why he looked _so familiar_.” 

“It’s called a flat,” Crowley added. 

“You - and - _Aziraphale_!” Suddenly shocked into action, Gabriel arose from the table as quickly as he had been sat down. “Aziraphale you were supposed to _watch_ _him_.”

“Oh he did,” agreed Crowley with a smirk. “Rather _closely_ , I might add.” 

“I meant _to watch out for him_ \- He’s going to ruin the _department_ , Aziraphale, don’t you care for that at all?”

“Well - well of _course_ , I care about the department! But Crowley isn’t planning on destroying anything, are you, darling?” 

“You can’t _trust_ him, Aziraphale! He’s - he’s an _outsider_!” 

“That’s not a nice thing to call someone,” Crowley interjected. 

“Indeed, Gabriel, I’ve always considered you the picture of professionalism and now this?” Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen and turned to Crowley, his face drawn and comically stern. “We should settle this once and for all. Crowley, are you, or are you _not_ planning on destroying the editing department.” 

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Crowley mused. “Why, would you _like_ me too?” 

“Oh of course not.” Aziraphale turned back to Gabriel. “See! He’s totally, completely innocent. So there it is!” He threw up his hands. No problems here.”

“This is a - a conflict of _interest_!” Gabriel squawked, harping on a new line of questioning since the other seemed to have gotten so out of his hands. “The company clearly states that-”

“The _company_ states that it has no policy against the private lives of employees and independent contractors.” Crowley finished. “I - ah - well I checked,” he added, almost apologetically. Aziraphale blinked at him, and now Crowley wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

Crowley had checked if there was a policy in place for… _things_ , for _potential things_ between employees and - 

Crowley had _checked_. 

This wasn’t - the hot cocoa, the beautiful tropical fish, the waiting for him to be done with work on the off chance they could have dinner together -

This _wasn’t_ empty beds and blithe promises. 

This was - 

“I’ll - I’ll take this to the top!” Gabriel derailed Aziraphale’s thoughts like a drunken engineer. “I’m sure _She’ll_ have something to say about it.” 

Her! Aziraphale cringed to remember that he had forgotten all about Her! What would she say, what would she - 

But Crowley was - Crowley was _laughing_. 

“Go ahead! She’ll probably give a raise just for being the messenger.”

“The... messenger? What do you mean, what message?” 

Gabriel was of the particular breed of person who expected invoking the name of The Powers Above would give him his way. This would happen, if not instantly, as quickly as the scrambling employees which had so displeased him could muster. To be _laughed_ at, well, that was the intolerable cherry on the very weird sundae of the _entire_ evening, and he was going to have very strong words just as soon as this Mr. Crowley stopped chuckling and told him - 

“For telling Her the happy news! My Mother’s been trying to get me to - oh what does she call it - ‘settle down with a nice man’ for ages.” Crowley was oblivious to the stunned silence that followed this startling proclamation, and continued. “Hell, forget a raise, she’ll make you _vice president_.” 

“ _MOTHER_?” Gabriel and Aziraphale shouted almost in unison, snapping out of their shared paralysis. Gabriel was practically backing away towards the door, as his mind struggled to cope and catalogue such revelatory information.

“Estranged,” Crowley waved his hands in front of him. He arose and took a few steps away from the table. “You know the old story. Two different people, I asked too many questions, She told me it was Her way or - well, my own way, I suppose. _Fell_ out of touch oh - decades ago.” When no response was forthcoming he continued. “More fool me. I thought not speaking for twenty or so years would somehow kill all that talk about ‘settling down’ and adopting grandbabies but wouldn’t you know it the _moment_ she asked for my help with the program she was talking about some flat she had seen for sale that was perfect for a family within the same _breath._ ” 

Gabriel’s back hit the door. 

“This had been- well, I don’t really _know_ what this has been.” Gabriel said, his hand scrambling for the door knob behind him. “Aziraphale, the report - well, you know what since I’ll be heading home _anyway_ ,” he snatched the folder from where he had carelessly set it down upon his arrival. “I’ll just... take care of it. Myself. Maybe take the train up tomorrow and work on it. You seem busy. I’m sure you have - pressing matters... to um... work out… with, you know, with Her son.” With an awkward salute (Americans were always saluting, weren’t they?) Gabriel finally threw the door open, slammed it after him, and clattered down the stairs without a shred of the grace or poise he usually possessed. 

Aziraphale and Crowley stared after him and sank down onto the couch as one, quite at a loss as to what on earth to say to each other until - 

“BIKES!” Crowley exclaimed. 

“ _What_?” 

“ _That’s_ what cooking is like, riding a bike. You never forget.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale said, not sure how to segue into what _really_ needed discussing. Hrm. Best to come right out with it. “So. _Mother_. As in She’s your, you know. Mother.” Crowley groaned. 

“Look, I knew it would come up eventually but -” He scratched the back of his head. “I _am_ sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just didn’t want anything to be - You know people get strange, boss’s son and all. And I get it, I do, so if it bothers you then-” Crowley was running away with suppositions in his own head again and Aziraphale was all too willing to throw him a line before he drifted too far. 

“ _No_ , no it doesn’t bother me at all! It’s only that...”

“Only?”

“Well, only it's the first piece of gossip I’ve _ever_ had before Michael and I’m not quite sure how to feel about all this power.” Crowley exhaled, visibly relieved. 

“You won’t - you won’t go telling everyone.” 

“Not on your life.”

“Thanks. Me and Her, we haven’t - we never really _fixed_ what was wrong, we just sort of - tolerate each other now, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I’ll be even _sorrier_ if we spend the rest of the night talking about my mother.”

“Ah of course I apologize, shall we talk about _Gabriel_ instead?”

“No, that’s really more of a lateral move. Though I don’t suppose he’ll make life any easier for you on Monday.” 

“Who, Gabriel? Oh, I’m sure he’d already heard something about it. This was just confirmation.”

“Already - already heard _what_?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? We’re already at the top of the office gossip chain! Michael says we’re the _talk_ of the company, though of course she made a point of how we’ve _nothing_ to show for it, not like her and her mysterious mailroom man -” Aziraphale froze. Crowley was pressing his wrist ever so gently, like he expected to be thrown off at any moment. 

“D’you -” Crowley swallowed. “I mean would you _like_ something to show for it?” A noise somewhere between a hysterical giggle and a war cry was strangled in Aziraphale’s throat before it could reach his lips. 

“Well I - I certainly wouldn’t be _opposed_ to it-” Crowley drew his hand back to pass it over his face and Aziraphale’s skin mourned the loss of contact. 

“An - _Aziraphale_ you’re killing me-”

“What did you just say?”

“Aziraphale you’re killing me?”

“No the other thing, the thing you almost said.”

“Nothing. I didn’t say-”

“ _Yes you did_ you said ‘an’ and then changed it to Aziraphale! You were doing that all this week and the one before that!”

“No I wasn’t-”

“You _were_! Haven’t forgotten my name already, have you?”

“Of _course_ not but-”

“Well then you best own up to it or I’m liable to become _terribly_ offended and then -”

“Angel!” Crowley finally groaned into his hands. “I almost called you _angel_ , alright? Because you’ve got the hair and those blue eyes and the way the light shines on you when you’re sitting in your office sometimes I swear it looks like a halo and I’m sorry if you catch me sometimes I just -” he choked back something like a sigh when Aziraphale laced their fingers together. 

“Well that’s good,” Aziraphale said, very slowly. 

“Good?” Crowley’s eyes were laser focused on their intertwined hands. 

“Yes dear. If you had let me finish I was going to say I was liable to become terribly offended and do something drastic.”

“And what would be _drastic_ enough for you right _now_ , angel?”

“Something like this.” 

And then Aziraphale made good on the promise he made to himself down on the pavement, the promise in the wine and the home cooked dinner and the hot cocoas and the almost-calling-him-angel and the countless ‘my dears.’” He allowed his free hand to trail up Crowley’s arm, rest against his cheek. For someone who was always so cold Crowley’s skin was warm, and his eyes shone like gold as they flitted between Aziraphale’s eyes and his lips. 

Then Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaned forward, and kissed him. 

Aziraphale was a man who had known his share of first kisses. Some had been electrifying, many had been quite terrible, and one or two had even been nice. 

But never before had his partner’s breath gently hitched in his throat as their lips met. Never had a pair of hands as ravenous to touch as they were careful buried themselves in the lapels of a tartan robe to pull them closer together. Now one of Crowley’s hands was sliding along Aziraphale’s jawline, twirling fingers in his hair, Aziraphale’s mouth was opening under his and then - 

Crowley was pulling back, his eyes bright, lips slightly swollen. 

“We’ve had a bit to drink tonight -” he began, but Aziraphale put a finger to his lips. 

“That’s got nothing to do with it. I decided I was going to try and kiss you the moment you stepped out of Newt’s ridiculous car.” 

“Oh.” 

“And I wanted to kiss you for a while before that, too.”

“ _Oh_.” 

“Yes. So if you’d like to, we can _resume_ at any-”

The next kiss was placed softly on Aziraphale’s throat, and he sighed with bliss. 

* * *

It was dark before Aziraphale could think coherently again. There was some things he really _should_ clear up, before this went any further than - well, at least any further than it _already had_. 

“Crowley?”

“Mm?” 

“I hope you know this isn’t just a - If you’re expecting some sort of temporary or _fly by night_ arrangement I-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley chided. “I learned your drink order the second day I was in the office. _I_ should be the one telling _you_ that this isn’t-”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t a… I don’t envision this as a _temporary_ or _fly by night_ thing, if that’s what you’re getting at. Don’t even know where you _pick up_ a term like that, fly by night.”

“You mean you’d like to keep -”

“If you’d like to -”

“And about other people, I’d rather not-” 

“There _are_ no other people, angel. Just you.” 

“Oh. It’s the same, for me.” 

“That’s… good. That’s good.” Crowley rested his head against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale listened to the sound of his breathing. 

It had the same rhythm as the ticking of the clock on his mantle. 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

If this doesn’t work out - between us, I mean, not that I’m thinking about that, but your Mother - She won’t…”

“Fire you? Nah. She’ll probably buy you a gift basket and call you a poor darling, ring me to ask me how I mucked it up this time.” 

“You won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“Muck it up this time.” 

Crowley clicked his tongue. 

“You don’t know that, angel.” 

“Certainly I do!” 

“Got a sixth sense about these sorts of things, do you? A right Anathema, you are.” 

“It’s not that.”

“Well what is it?” 

“Michael told me you were staring at me the first day you arrived at the office and has been trying to get us to go out together for _weeks_. If she didn’t think you were worth it she’d have scared you off ages ago.”

“Is that right?” 

“Should have seen the _last_ man who tried to get my number. Thought he was going to cry by the time she was finished with him.” 

“Oh. Well, as long as I have _Michael’s_ approval.” Crowley placed a few more kisses along his shoulder. But there was more, and Aziraphale waited for Crowley to find the words. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes?” 

“Can we _please_ stop talking about my mother and Michael and Anathema? I’d also like to stop any at all future discussion discussion of Mr. Young, Newt, and anyone else.” 

In the darkness, Aziraphale laughed. 

“Yes dear, of course we can.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Want to make 20 minute chocolate mousse for fun and profit? Make a regular mousse, chuck it in the freezer, panic about it for a few minutes, make whipped cream to pass the time, pray that the mousse has set JUST ENOUGH that it won't screw up the layers, put the whipped cream on top and SERVE. 
> 
> WE FINALLY GOT HERE FOLKS. Still (at least) one more chapter to go though! Come see me over at[@soft-october-night](https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOWOWOWOW I am sorry this update took so long but in my defense I would like to gesture at the state of everything outside. I was originally going to have seven chapters and throw in some angst, but found that I couldn't bring myself to do it in the slightest. 
> 
> So enjoy the final chapter, chock full of inter-office banter, managers getting what they deserve, and happy endings all around.

It was a nice weekend.

Dates that begin as a comedy of errors on Friday evening and end wrapped up in a bed together on Sunday night usually are.

But the work week waits for no man, no matter how lovely his last few days may have been. At 8:57 on Monday morning, Aziraphale practically skipped through the gold front doors of the building, hummed a merry tune while waiting for the elevator, caught Newt’s bundle of papers before they could fall to the floor in the hall, thanked Anathema for the tea, asked how Michael’s day had gone, and complimented Mr. Young on the new picture Adam had drawn, now proudly hanging on the filing cabinet, before serenely sailing off into his corner office. He barely had time to sit down at his desk and stared at the pile of books and paperwork in front of him without really seeing any of it before -

“ _Someone_ looks like the cat who got the cream,” said Michael, leaning against the door. “I thought Anathema was bad enough but -”

“I was not _bad enough_ ,” Anathema ducked in under Michael’s arm and made a show of defending herself. “I just -”

“You were _singing_ , when you walked in today,” Michael sneered with a smile. “The _Beatles_ , if I’m not mistaken.” A phone rang in the distance, and Mr. Young answered it. “The air is so sweet in here I might choke on it.”

“It wasn’t the _Beatles_ ,” Anathema replied. “It was Paul McCartney, there’s a _difference_.”

Before Aziraphale could ask what, exactly, the difference was (He rather thought all that bebop music sounded the same, after all), Mr. Young called in from the floor.

“Michael! Your chap from the mailroom is on line one, he wants to know if he should take you to the Thai place you like or if you’d rather have a night in like you did this weekend.” Anathema gasped, Aziraphale knocked a stack of books of his desk and Michael turned a very interesting shade of red. The three of them stared at each other for a few long moments, memories of Michael’s words about a Shakespearean comedy running around the room in a merry jaunt of victory.

Then the three of them burst out laughing.

“Must have been something in that rain on Friday,” Aziraphale commented after he had regained hold of himself. “Looks like everyone had a rather _interesting_ few days, hmm?”

“At least _I_ didn’t come to work with a bruise on my neck,” Michael sputtered, indicating Anathema.

“That’s because _you_ used foundation on yours,” Anathema replied, rolling her eyes before fixing them again on Aziraphale. “So, I’ll tell you mine if you tell us yours. How was it? Were there romantic declarations? Did you spend the whole weekend in bed? Where’s your hickey so we can all be a matching set?”

“Well,” Aziraphale began. (He did have a bruise but he certainly wasn’t going to show them _where._ ) “He made me dinner,” Anathema and Michael nodded, pushing him to continue. “And then dessert.”

“Ohhhhh he made you _dessert_.”

“Wait did he _make_ you dessert or make _you_ dessert-”

“And then Gabriel showed up.”

The general air of merriment in the room fell flat on its face and limped off to the corner.

“I mean far be it for me to judge what you get up to, Aziraphale,” Michael hissed, “but _the boss_?”

“NO!” The thought alone was enough to curdle Aziraphale’s stomach. “No no not like _that_! He wanted me to do another presentation and the folders got switched _somehow_.” Michael’s eyebrows shot up and she looked away. “So he came over to switch them back and he saw us -”

“Oh my god!” Anathema squealed. “Did he freak out? Did he have a heart attack?”

“He…” Aziraphale tried to find the words. “He was very… put out? But Crowley said-”

“What did I say, Angel?” Crowley asked from the doorway.

“ _Crowley_!” Aziraphale felt his face light up, and before the weekend they spent together he would have been embarrassed by Michael’s pursed lips and sly smile, or Anathema’s little gasps and gushes. But in that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care about a single thing that wasn’t the way Crowley was smiling back at him. “I was just lauding how soundly you dealt with Gabriel.”

“Serves him right,” Crowley muttered, in a pleased sort of way. “Any word from him this morning?”

“None, I believe you successfully scared him off for me.”

“Anything you like,” Crowley replied, waving his hand.

“You two are absolutely disgusting,” Michael quipped. “I’m going to actually be sick if-”

“Michael?” Mr. Young called again, hanging up the phone. “He says he’s coming up to get an answer -”

“No!” Michael cried. “No, he shouldn’t, tell him to -”

“He’s already rung off.”

Michael sprang from Aziraphale’s office and tried to run for the door, only to find Newt was arriving, blushing, with tea and a bag of biscuits for the office (but mostly for Anathema) and there was almost a collision. The brief scuffle gave Anathema the time she needed to rush out in a swirl of necklaces and skirts to bar the exit.

“No, absolutely not,” she said, imperiously, when she met Michael’s glare. “We are all baring our souls here and it’s time you did as well. You mystery man, is going to walk through that door, won’t be a mystery anymore, and all have a cup of tea together like civilized people.” She gave a scowl to everyone in turn, even Aziraphale and Crowley, whose hands had found themselves intertwined as they wandered out of the office.

“‘S fine by me,” Crowley said. “ _I’m_ not quite sure what we’re talking about.” Newt breathed a sigh of relief, as he had been experiencing the increasing anxiety you get in one of those dreams where you have to take a final for a class you can’t ever remember attending ever since he walked through the door.

“Good,” Anathema replied. Then she turned to Newt, indicating the bag of sweets. “And thank you! What kinds did you bring me?”

“They’re - er - they’re for everyone, not just -”

“They already know about us, you can stop pretending.”

“Oh thank god.” Newt dropped his face and made a big show of setting out pastries and biscuits on Anathema’s desk, and this stroke of simple domesticity worked calming wonders on the whole of the room.

“So let’s just sit down, Newt if you wouldn’t mind pouring the tea, and -”

“Are we having tea? I wouldn’t mind a cup”

Gabriel had walked into the office.

“Yes, Gabriel,” Michael said, carefully. “Can we help you?”

“No, no, just that cup of tea and I need to speak to Aziraphale.” He glanced toward the lights on the ceiling for a moment. “Actually, you should all hear this. You see - Aziraphale, I’ve been mulling it over all weekend. You know, the… the situation, with you and Mr. Crowley.”

“Have you, then?” Aziraphale was surprised at his own voice, even and cool.

“And while there is no statute against it, I have to - I have to do what’s right by the company, I mean, you understand.”

“What, _exactly_ , are you saying, Gabriel?”

“I’m saying that - well, you should probably get your desk cleaned out, security will be up in a moment to escort you -”

“ _What_?” cried five voices from within the office. Six if you counted the mail clerk who had just popped in the door. Michael strode towards him and caught his arm in a grip so tight her knuckles turned white.

“This is nothing _personal_ , Aziraphale!” Gabriel continued. “It’s just good business, can’t have our employees galavanting off with - well, with _you know_.”

“I’m standing _right here_ ,” Crowley snapped.

“Well, _exactly_! You’ll be able to freely pursue this… relationship-” Gabriel ground out the word like glass between his teeth. “The company will be _better_ for it, and regardless of personal _attachments_ that anyone might have! You said yourself She wanted you to settle down and this paves the way for that with no conflicts whatsoever.” In that moment Aziraphale realized what Gabriel thought he was doing. He _thought_ he was following Her will, thought he was providing for Her happiness and, therefore, the happiness of the company.

“And have you cleared this with Her?” Crowley demanded, before Aziraphale could tell Gabriel how absurd he was being. “Or just plowed right ahead with whatever you _think_ She wants?” Gabriel gave him a dry, blanched look.

“Mr. Crowley, as manager of this department I am trusted to know what is best for this company, She _assured_ me on the golf outing over the weekend my decisions will be backed up by -”

“Oh, She _did?_ ”

“Not in so many words, but She has certainly listened to _me_ more than _you_ in the last twenty years!” Gabriel snapped. “Oh yes, I spoke with Melvin this morning, learned all about your little history. I know what you did -”

“Maybe I should get out of here,” the mail clerk at the door said.

“No!” said Anathema at the exact same time Michael said “ _Please_ ,”

“Bit of a row going on, eh?” Mr. Young chuckled to himself at his desk. Anathema slammed the door shut.

“You’re Mr. Ligur, right?” she asked the mail clerk. “Always with that smelly guy, what’s his name -”

“Hastur, and I’m just Ligur,” said Ligur.

“Let’s clear all of this up right now,” said Crowley, ignoring the drama of Michael and Ligur. “Someone dial Her number, I don’t know it.”

The room froze. Eyes flicked towards each other, eventually settled on Michael, whose hands were twitching like her head longed to be buried in them.

“What?” she asked. No answer was forthcoming.

“We don’t have to bring Her into this directly -” Gabriel started.

“Won’t she back you up?” Crowley smirked. “You were certain just a moment ago she would stand by your decision.”

“Of course she would - it’s just that-”

“Be _quiet_ , Gabriel,” Michael grumbled. “Let me think -”

“It’s alright, love,” Ligur soothed. He pried her from his arm and rubbed the feeling back into her fingers. “Let’s get it over and done.” Michael pursed her lips, nodded, and went to her phone, where her fingers punched in the numbers with practiced ease. Gabriel stood in the corner with a smarmy smile carved into his face, but everyone could see the small beads of sweat that were already appearing at his hairline.

“Melvin?” Michael said into the phone. “It’s me. I’m calling in that favor. No, not that one, the other one. _Yes_ , that one. Send Her down to Editing. No I’m not joking. You’ve got five minutes before everyone finds out about that thing. Good. Get it done.” The receiver clicked into the cradle, and everyone stared at each other in awkward silence.

“So,” Aziraphale said. “Mr - Oh, no, just Ligur, correct? How umm - how did you two meet?”

“You don’t have to answer that-” Michael began, but she was preempted by Ligur’s proud - “At a baking class.” When he realized his error, he smiled to himself and patted Michael on the hand.

“That’s - that’s very nice,” Aziraphale stammered.

“You should see her meringues,” Ligur said. “Thought the instructor was going to go green with envy.”

“They _were_ better than hers,” Michael whispered.

“That’s my girl, of course they were. Nothing compared to your scones, but if you shared those with everyone else they’d go mad.”

“Scones?” said Aziraphale, always on the hunt for an interesting and delicious pastry, and Crowley squeezed his hand.

“I’ll get you all the scones you want _later_ , Angel. But before She arrives I just have to know if -”

“Well, well, well,” said a voice from the door. They hadn’t even heard it open. “I wish someone had told me it was a party. I would have brought some champagne.”

“We don’t usually -” Aziraphale began, but She held up her hand.

“It’s alright. Why did my secretary run into my office and practically beg me to come down? And _please_ don’t say it's because someone died and I needed to handle it, I didn’t believe him and I certainly won’t believe -”

“I wanted to see you,” said Crowley. She looked surprised, then pleased.

“And to what do I owe this sudden outburst of filial sentiment?”

Michael mouthed the word _filial_ to Aziraphale in question, but he couldn’t hope to explain the relationship before it came out.

“Mother,” Crowley began. (Aziraphale thought that was rather abrupt for everyone, and he was correct.)

“ _Mother?_ ” Michael, Anathema and Ligur cried. (Michael was shocked she never knew of it before, Anathema and Ligur were shocked that _she_ was shocked.)

Mr. Young bit into a very noisy biscuit.

“It seems that I’ve stumbled on a conflict of interest,” Crowley continued, dry as a bone.

“Oh?” She said. “Is this different from our _previous_ conflicts of interest?”

“Not with _you_ ,” he snapped. “There’s a - well.” He stopped, scratched the back of his head. “It’s like when you start a job expecting one thing, and then it turns out that there’s a completely different… Maybe you thought you were past all that nonsense and then -” Crowley chewed the inside of his lip, trying to find the words, becoming more distressed by the second, and Aziraphale couldn’t stand to see him like that a second longer.

“Crowley and I are dating!” blurted Aziraphale, and then raised his hands to his mouth, stunned at his own audacity.

Several people began talking all at once.

“It’s official _already_?” Anathema asked.

“Moving rather quickly, aren’t we-” Michael added.

“Like dating casually or like, relationship stuff?” Ligur asked. “Because you should figure that out sooner rather than later, save you both a lot of pining and wondering about-”

“I should _hope_ you’re dating, you were wearing _bathrobes_ together -” Gabriel snapped.

“Bathrobes?” Newt asked, bewildered by the general nature of the goings on. And yet despite the cacophony, Aziraphale wasn’t paying so much attention to everyone else. His eyes were glued to Her, waiting for Her reaction. Slowly, slowly, like water slipping down a windowpane in a light drizzle, she started to smile. Then She was grinning, a twinkle in Her eye, and out of all the rest in the room Aziraphale could _hardly_ say She looked the most shocked. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say (well, it wasn’t true of course, _couldn’t_ be true) that She looked almost as if it was something She _expected_.

“Oh _Crowley_ ,” She gasped, in the manner of mothers everywhere who had just been relieved of the long despair that their son would be alone forever. “He’s such a _nice_ young man, so smart and handsome!”

“Mother -” It appeared to Aziraphale that Crowley very much wanted the floor to open up and fling him into the abyss, be buried a hundred feet blow the building, rather than spend another minute under the gaze of his mother.

“Yes, yes you’re right,” She agreed, waving her arms in dismissal. “This is a professional setting, but I’ve been hoping you would find a suitable - well, not that the rest weren’t _suitable_ but they all led you down a bad path and -”

“ _Mother_ -”

“I just _mean_ that I would _hardly_ stand in your way, that this is no - oh did you say it, no ‘conflict of interest’ to me.” Crowley’s mouth twisted in victory.

“Then explain to me why Aziraphale was _fired_.”

Her smile faded. She turned to Gabriel as she brought a hand to her mouth, disappointment etched into her every movement.

“Oh _Gabriel_. You _didn’t_.”

Aziraphale knew there was a way that Gabriel could salvage this. He could claim he acted in haste without knowing the facts, could say he was overzealous and the paperwork hadn’t been filed, even play the whole thing off as a joke, if Gabriel were the type of person who had _ever_ joked before. But any of these options would require something Aziraphale was certain that Gabriel did not possess, and that was the ability to quit while he was ahead.

“I _did_ ,” Gabriel declared, with the proud bluster of a man who feels backed into a corner, and is certain that if he just continues to explain his position in the face of overwhelming opposition, everyone around him will see what a smart and brave boy he is. “I’m _sure_ that it would be frowned upon, something that wasn’t in your plans when you hired Mr. Crowley to work with this department-”

“Hm,” She hummed, and Gabriel stopped speaking. “I don’t remember making a rule about that. I’m sure I didn’t.”

“But that was your _intention_ , I knew that if I -” began Gabriel, but She held up her hand and he cowed instantly.

“Gabriel, I’m not certain I gave you leave to _interpret_ my intentions.” Her words were spoken so simply, gentle, even. Yet they hung like a bombshell on the floor of the editing office, and everyone took minute steps away from Gabriel, lest they be hit with shrapnel.

“But I… we went _golfing_ together!” Gabriel was a man adrift. He had always believed, his _books_ always said, that once the boss invited you for a golf outing, that was _it_ , there was nowhere to go but up. (Gabriel had not read far enough into any of his books on leadership and managerial style. He would read one or two chapters, decide he knew what the rest of the book would say, and cast it aside. He never got to the chapters about how you shouldn’t, under _any_ circumstances, fuck with the boss' family.) “I assumed… Well, your plan is - perhaps if I took some initiative -”

“Firing the person who makes all your presentations is taking initiative, Gabriel, but it is _wise_?” Gabriel made an awful noise that no one in the office ever wanted to hear again.

“He doesn’t - the very idea -”

“Yes I do,” said Aziraphale, who was tired of the farce and if he was going to be fired anyway, he wasn’t going to go out under Gabriel’s heel. (Besides, Crowley’s hand in his made him feel rather brave.) “Each and every presentation, budget report, employee evaluation, and hiring -”

“That’s _enough_ , Aziraphale -”

“I don’t believe I have to take orders from you anymore,” Aziraphale said, sweet as the chocolate mousse Crowley made for him on Friday.

“I know all about that,” She said. “Gabriel, I’ve read your interoffice memos. I know what your writing style is like, and what it isn’t. I run a _publishing company_.” Gabriel opened his mouth, but she raised a finger and he clicked it shut. “If it’s _any_ consolation, I was a big fan of your work at the end of the last presentation Aziraphale put together.” She turned to Aziraphale himself. “That was a nice touch by the way. Really broke up the monotony of a Monday afternoon.”

Gabriel wildly spun from one face to the other, desperate to find a sympathetic eye, his despair growing when all he found were cringes in secondhand embarrassment.

“Of course, in the future I’ll -” Gabriel made a valiant attempt to recover.”I’m sure with another chance I can -”

“I don’t think so,” She said, shaking Her head. “I’m afraid this is the latest in a long line of missteps. I had hoped our conversation this weekend would have made an impact, but I see I should have been addressing this problem long before.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I know you love this company more than anyone, but I fear that your attitude needs desperate improvement.”

“Am I - am _I being let go_?” Gabriel _screamed_ this in a whisper.

“Oh, no, of course not, I’m not as cruel as all that. I just think that all your executive work has gone to your head a bit too much. Perhaps a stint in the mailroom will improve you.”

“The - the _mail room?_ ” Gabriel sputtered. “But - my office, Sandalphon -”

“Will all be waiting for you when you’ve relearned what its like to be the one following orders, instead of giving them.” Gabriel was not heartened by this, and everyone else pretended that his sharp intake of breath did not sound a bit like a sob. “It’s alright, Gabriel,” she said, taking mercy on him. “Why don’t you have your book on my desk by the end of the day?” Gabriel blinked at her. “The one Aziraphale shared in that presentation? It’ll be a bestseller.” She sighed, in resignation. “ _I can tell.”_

“What about the rest of us?” asked Michael, who more than any of them knew an opportunity when she saw one. “Who is going to head up the department?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? What shall I do with the rest of you?” She hummed to herself, as if in thought. “You,” She said, pointing to Aziraphale. “You want the archivist position, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, I’ve always -”

“It’s yours. Michael can have your job.”

“ _Yes_!” Michael exclaimed, and then immediately clapped her mouth shut, though everyone could tell that it was only through decades of careful British style restraint that Michael didn’t jump up and down or pump her fist in the air in triumph.

“But who will be replacing Gabriel?” Anathema asked.

“It doesn’t seem like he was doing much of import anyway, does it?” She said, thoughtfully. “I think a considerable raise and whatever his duties were will be given to Michael, and maybe a new hire in this department should about cover it. Especially if that new program is going to be done, and I suspect it won't be long, now that this has a been resolved. Now, son of mine.” Crowley visibly stiffened under her pointed eye. “I know you don’t care for all my little ordering everyone about, and I’m under no illusion that this conversation has fixed anything between us, but maybe you can call once a month now?”

“Maybe in another twenty years we can even go out for tea,” Crowley replied, failing to hide a smile.

“Maybe,” she said, and for the first time Aziraphale saw their similarities so clearly he was stunned he had never seen it before. “At least invite me to the wedding.”

“Mother.”

“What? I promise not to embarrass you.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale interrupted, “We could continue this conversation… er - should the appropriate time arise?”

“Yes, yes of course!” She clapped her hands in delight (Aziraphale had the sense She would rather playfully tweak Her son on the nose, but was wise enough to know not to.) “I do believe that clears everything up, unless you’d like me to notice the other two office romances happening under my nose and ask them to fill out the appropriate paperwork?”

“No,” said Crowley. “That’s quite enough, I think.”

With a chorus of goodbyes, the CEO of Celestial Publishing sailed out of the office with all the pomp of a cruise ship on a maiden voyage, (Gabriel trailing after her like an embarrassed tugboat caught going the wrong way).

“Mother,” said Michael, to Crowley.

“Mother,” he confirmed.

“Well let’s all sit down and have it,” Anathema said. “We’ll get no peace until Michael hears the whole story and _we_ get to hear all about her and Mr. Ligur and the scones which could drive a man mad.”

“Man’d have to be mad, go out with Michael,” Aziraphale laughed.

“Oh is that so,” Michael said. “Because I’m looking at the daftest men I’ve _ever_ had the misfortune to work beside. Waiting all this time and then jumping in feet first.” She tsked them.

“I’ll have you know we’ve had either one very long date or three dates, depending on how you’d like to count,” Crowley muttered.

“I hope you at least had the decency to make him breakfast -”

“Oh he did!” Aziraphale said with a happy wiggle. “It was a delightful little medley of crepes-”

“Crepes!” Michael arched an eyebrow. “My, my, my, _someone’s_ wearing his heart out on his sleeve-”

“I said _sit_ ,” Anathema snapped. “We can all show our claws later. Let’s dig in before Mr. Young eats all the goodies out from under us.”

“I would _never_ ,” Mr. Young declared, with a smudge of chocolate on his face from an errant crumb of eclair.

It was a very long conversation, and hardly any work got done that day.

Michael thought she would let it slide, just this once.

* * *

For all that Aziraphale had longed for the archivist position, he did not stay long at Celestial Publishing.

Crowley’s editing software was a great success, and his services were soon demanded by other establishments, and he began to feel the burnout that comes from too many late nights trying to find errors in code. Aziraphale discovered three years into his new position, he was more prone to _reading_ the books than _archiving_ them, and there was no code his new husband could conjure that would allow him to do both. (Crowley had _tried_.)

So they moved out to the country, opened up their own online publishing house, and made the revelatory choice to make children’s books which were actually _written_ by children.

Adam Young became their first published author, to the pride and joy of his parents.

Anathema and Newt dated for another two years before she got tired of waiting and asked him to marry her. They eloped to Spain and plan on having at least six children.

Michael put up new curtains, and she still loves her corner office.

_Especially_ when Ligur comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, my dear readers, is that. 
> 
> If you're worried about Gabriel, don't be. He's about to be enchanted by the boss of the mail room. 
> 
> This was so much fun to write, at a time when I desperately needed something enjoyable. Thank you all so so much for coming along on this screwball comedy with me. Hang out with me here [@soft-october-night](https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/) if you got some yellin' to do!


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